


Everyone Has Secrets

by ellaria



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crime, F/M, Hacking, Journalism, Mystery, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-08 01:16:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 113,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellaria/pseuds/ellaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Political journalist Jaime Lannister finds himself out of alternatives when <i>Millennium</i>, his magazine, becomes endangered by his reckless actions. Brienne Tarth, a professional hacker charged with the task of investigating him, will stumble upon more than she expected. The mystery of a disappearance ten years earlier will draw them to Winterfell, where more than one secret might be uncovered.</p>
<p>Based on <i>The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo</i> by Stieg Larsson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Armageddon

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on Stieg Larsson’s _The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo_ , but reading the book or watching the film is not necessary. It has explicit sexual content and violence, and there will be mild references to past sexual abuse. The characters and settings belong to their respective authors. Each chapter features a quote from the _Millennium_ trilogy at the beginning. The idea of using the trilogy came from a prompt by Lena G, so thank you for the inspiration!
> 
> Resources: [Promo video](http://khaleesiofwine.tumblr.com/post/71966161298/for-those-who-have-been-following-the-updates-of) | [Full Soundtrack Playlist](http://mixtube.org/playlist.php?id=18696) | Thanks to Ro Nordmann for [this amazing animated banner](http://khaleesiofwine.tumblr.com/post/74970682218/ro-little-shop-of-wonders-political-journalist)
> 
> YellowDelaney, I could have never, and I mean _ever_ , done this without you. You’ve been my rock throughout the writing of this story, you’ve been there for the good and the terribly bad. You’ve given everything you had to make this piece better in spite of your own commitments, and for that I am eternally grateful. I could never take credit for this whole thing, because without your invaluable input and grin-worthy comments I would have had no motivation to push through. Neither of us knew the size of the undertaking that this fic would entail, and yet somehow you’re still paddling with me. I am unbelievably blessed to call you my friend.
> 
> **Update - May 26th 2016:** I've just been notified that this story won third place for All-Time Favourite Game of Thrones fanfic at Fanatic Fanfics. I'm thrilled to hear it and beyond grateful for the honour!
> 
> [ ](http://awards.fanaticfanfics.com/index.php/winners/2016-winners#3rd-place-4)
> 
> **Chapter 1 Notes**
> 
> This chapter is introductory. Song: [The Beatles - I Me Mine](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NvDHwVM-PJI) | [Lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/beatles/imemine.html) | Beta'ed by [YellowDelaney](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowDelaney/pseuds/YellowDelaney)
> 
>   
>  _For Dani and Corri. May this bring you much enjoyment._

Chapter 1: Armageddon

_Armageddon was yesterday—today we have a serious problem._

*** * ***

_Son of a bitch_.

_Pissed off_ would not begin to describe Jaime Lannister’s reaction to his sentence. Not only had all the evidence turned against him during the police investigation, but every single one of his sources had disappeared without a trail: Hallyne, Rossart, Varys. All made-up names, as if they had been mere figments of his imagination, their information a lure to snare him. And he had fallen for it, hook, line and sinker.

He adjusted his tie, feeling like he might choke in the heat of his custom-made suit. He would be wearing his usual jeans for all he cared, but his lawyer had insisted that he dress appropriately for court, and he was not about to contradict Addam while his entire career was on the line. _For all the good it did me_ , Jaime thought bitterly. _I might as well have been in my underwear in there_.

Jaime squinted in the glare of the sun outside. He had barely taken two steps out of the courthouse when the reporters crowded around him, each of them speaking at the same time. Yet all he heard was a distant chatter, droning in the background while his mind raced, thinking about the consequences of the judge’s words.

He pushed his way through the crowd to the car that awaited him. Ilyn Payne, the driver hired by _Millennium_ for official business, opened the door for him and Jaime slumped on the back seat, cursing his luck and pulling his cell phone out of his pocket. He stared at it a moment, running his thumb over the touchscreen, but his curiosity bit at him and he quickly reloaded the King’s Landing Herald website to find his name at the top of the page.

**THE KINGSLAYER FOUND GUILTY OF LIBEL**  
Barristan Selmy

_Jaime Lannister, the journalist known amongst many as ‘The Kingslayer’ for his involvement in the investigation that led to the exposure and subsequent capture of six members of the Kingswood Brotherhood, has been found guilty of libel against Targaryen Industries owner Aerys Targaryen._

_Two months ago, Lannister, co-owner of the political magazine_ Millennium _along with his brother Tyrion Lannister, published an article in which he claimed to have proof of Aerys Targaryen’s connection with a network of sexual slave trafficking in the Free Cities. During the police investigation that followed, his evidence was found lacking and Targaryen sued him for criminal defamation. At 1:41 PM this afternoon, King’s Landing District Court found Lannister guilty of fifteen counts of aggravated libel and sentenced him to pay over two million dragons in damages and costs. The verdict forecasts a bleak future for both Lannister and_ Millennium _._

Jaime shut off the screen of his phone and threw it on the back seat. He was sure that tomorrow morning he would be on the front page of every newspaper in Westeros. Ironically enough, what bothered him the most was the use of that damned term. _Kingslayer_. Though his research on the case of the Brotherhood had been his biggest achievement so far, he had ended up ridiculed for it, as people believed him to have haphazardly dropped his position at LanCorp to play detective. Back then he was barely starting out as an investigative journalist, _Millennium_ did not even have an office, and Jaime and Tyrion had only just escaped their father’s claws.

The car slowed, pulling Jaime from his thoughts. He looked outside the window and found himself in the back lot of the _Millennium_ building. Payne was mute, so he made no indication that they had arrived at their destination—he merely flipped a button on the dash to unlock the doors and stared straight ahead. Jaime exited the car in silence, grateful that Payne had decided to park at the back so Jaime could avoid the photographers that would be waiting outside the main entrance like vultures.

Tyrion’s expression when Jaime walked into the conference room told him everything he needed to know. There was an ‘I’m sorry’ in there, along with ‘this sucks’ and ‘what are we going to do now?’. At the end the dwarf settled for, “How are you?”

Jaime sat at the far end of the table, running his hand over his eyes in an attempt to drive away his exhaustion. “For now, I’m screwed, brother. All of my sources were planted. My research was sound, but without their confirmation, it’s meaningless.” He leaned back on the chair. “I have to pay over two million dragons. Addam said they already froze my funds.” A smirk crept upon his lips. “You know what that means, right?”

Tyrion put his hands in the pockets of his jeans and shrugged. “You’re flat out broke.”

“All I’ll get to keep is my place and my car. I’ll be lucky if I have enough cash to buy the week’s groceries.”

“Touché.” Tyrion fisted his hand and placed it against the closed door with a heavy sigh. “We knew this was a long shot, that the Targaryens were too big a fish.”

Jaime rested his elbows on the table, feeling the weight of the world upon his shoulders. “It’s my fault. I was the one who insisted. I pushed it even though you warned me we’d be exposed.”

“It would have been the article that made us, Jaime. We both agreed to roll the dice.” He paused. “I just think we should’ve taken Father into consideration.”

Jaime merely narrowed his eyes in reply, unable to grasp his meaning.

Tyrion continued, “There are two possibilities. Either Tywin planned this farce with Aerys to screw _Millennium_ over and get us back to LanCorp, or Aerys’ grudge for him is so deep that this was just a ploy to establish dominance. Something to prove that Lannisters are not untouchable.”

Tyrion was right—no other journalist would be forced to pay such a ridiculous compensation for libel, especially considering that _Millennium_ had a run of only 10,000 copies every month. As always, the damned Lannister name was their blessing and their curse; they were sucked back into Tywin Lannister’s atmosphere, pressed down by the weight of his influence one way or another. But Jaime was already tired of being governed by his father. Both he and Tyrion had been disowned five years ago, when they decided they had enough of the family corporation and sought to walk their own path.

“All that matters right now is the result.” Jaime stood, a heavy breath leaving his lips. “I have to leave the magazine or it will sink along with me.”

Tyrion frowned and opened his mouth to reply, but soon closed it, indicating his begrudging agreement. After a moment of silence, with those words hanging in the air, he said, “I’m not happy about it, you know that. If you decide to stay, we’ll stand up for you. We’ll face this together.”

Jaime laughed softly. He had come to know very well the tone of voice his brother used when he had a hard time being honest. “I’ll take one for the team. We didn’t build this thing from the ground up see Aerys Targaryen burn it all. I’m leaving.”

Grabbing his bag, he made his way to the door. Where he was headed, he wasn’t sure. At the moment he only hoped that he could find enough spare cash in his apartment to order in some warm dinner and a few six-packs of beer.


	2. Correction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: [Danzig - Thirteen](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=coTL7PZ8JiQ) | [Lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/danzig/thirteen.html) | Beta'ed by [YellowDelaney](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowDelaney/pseuds/YellowDelaney)

Chapter 2: Correction

_There was a whole army of people who seemed not to have anything better to do than to try to disrupt her life, and, if they were given the opportunity, to correct the way she had chosen to live it._

*** * ***

“Jaime Lannister is forty years old. Unmarried, lives alone, owns the _Millennium_ magazine with his brother Tyrion. He’s the son of Tywin Lannister, billionaire and proprietor of LanCorp, the biggest oil company in the world. Tywin disowned both his sons five years ago when they renounced their positions at LanCorp. They relied on Jaime’s abilities as a journalist and Tyrion’s as a Business Administration major to create _Millennium_. The magazine gained recognition when Jaime’s investigation cracked the case of the Kingswood Brotherhood, but he was mocked for focusing on mere detective work and choosing to ignore his father’s own involvement in the finances of the criminal organization. Afterwards, he was given the moniker of ‘Kingslayer’, a sardonic reference to his part in bringing the Brotherhood to justice.”

“All of this I know, Miss Tarth.” Edmure Tully’s expression gave away his distaste for the word ‘miss’. Brienne had seen the look many times before on other men when they were forced to be minimally polite to her in the presence of her employer. Mr. Goodwin had always considered her an important asset of Evenstar Security, so he had always demanded respect for her, even if her appearance was wont to elicit particularly distasteful reactions from the clients. Brienne looked away from him, toward the large windows of the chilly conference room. Only the three of them were participating in the meeting.

She knew a lot about Edmure, too. The redhead was the nephew of Brynden Tully, the man who was in charge of administering the Stark children’s finances after the Red Wedding. Edmure had been the one to marry Roslin Frey during that fateful day. The couple lived in Riverrun, whereas his uncle had taken refuge in Winterfell after the incident. In spite of Brienne’s very careful research, she still did not know why Edmure was investigating the Kingslayer, but it was not her place to ask Mr. Goodwin about it.

Brienne’s reply was brief and cold, “Everything is on the report. I have nothing else to say.” She received an annoyed look from Goodwin at that, but the older man remained quiet. His brown eyes focused on their client instead, waiting for his response.

Edmure shifted in his seat. As always, Brienne wondered if she was making him uncomfortable by simply existing. Evenstar Security had the most expensive services in the city, so everyone in the company was impeccably presented, especially the women. They all wore skirt suits and walked like supermodels, spoke fluidly and knew how to captivate any client, but Brienne would have none of it. There would have been no way to force her out of her worn out jeans and motorcycle boots, or to make her wear anything but plain t-shirts. Her straw-colored hair was as short as a man’s, and with a face like hers she was not about to enter a beauty pageant anytime soon.

It was not as if she visited the office often. She was shy and introverted, and she hated interacting with the other employees who got a kick out of openly mocking her. Moreover, so many years suffering the harassment from strangers in the subway had put her off wandering the streets. The last time she had worked a late shift and gone back home on one of the late trains, over a year ago, a monstrous man nicknamed Biter had tried to rape her. She had managed to stick a knife in his gut before the attack could progress, but he had bitten her face so brutally as a response that it had left a two-inch scar along her cheek.

Edmure cleared his throat. “I read the report. I know you researched extensively and everything is perfectly documented. What I want—” He stopped to correct himself. “—what _my uncle_ wants is your opinion.”

Brienne was surprised. No one ever gave two shits about her opinion: not the police, not the system when her father was killed and she became an orphan, not her super when there was trouble in her apartment. Mr. Goodwin cared about her work, but all of his attempts to get her to trust him had been futile, so eventually he gave up and kept their relationship strictly professional. All they ever discussed now were her reports. He knew she was a hacker—there would have been no other way to obtain the information she so carefully presented him—but he turned a blind eye because it got results. That was why their clients paid them such fat checks, after all.

Goodwin nodded for her to proceed, so Brienne spoke, “Jaime Lannister is arrogant and proud. He’s calculating and cunning and will sacrifice others in order to obtain what he needs. He has endangered more than one of his sources in the process of getting the story.” There was a glint on Edmure’s eyes as he listened, and the beginnings of a smirk appeared on his lips. Brienne wondered why, but she continued, “However . . . Lannister is also honest. He has never published a single article without having significant documentation to back it up, and the evidence he presented in the case against Aerys Targaryen was real. He had audio of his conversations with his contacts, but all three men disappeared as soon as _Millennium_ published the feature. There were no murders registered by the City Watch that could justify the disappearances. The Kingslayer was set up.”

Edmure’s smile faded at that. If Brienne’s instincts were right, he was betting against the Kingslayer during the entire assignment. Since he was merely representing Brynden Tully, who appeared to be quite interested in hiring Lannister, it seemed like a disagreement between the Tullys was bubbling beneath the surface. But whatever the situation was, the man had obtained the answers he sought. Edmure stood and shook Goodwin’s hand, thanking him for his services and leaving the room with a thick folder in his hand. It contained Brienne’s thorough work of over a fortnight.

“You did well,” Goodwin told her once Edmure had closed the door behind him. “I know tailing the Kingslayer must not have been easy. He’s more high profile than our usual targets.”

Brienne nodded, unmoving, waiting for him to give her leave to go.

“You’ve been quieter than usual,” the older man pointed out, fiddling with an expensive pen on his desk. “Has something happened, Brienne?”

“Nothing important,” she assured him, lying through her teeth. Before the falsehood could start to leak out of her pores, she stood and threw on her black leather jacket and her messenger bag, and picked up her motorcycle helmet from the desk. “I should be getting home now. Will you call me if you have anything else?”

“As always. Have a nice day.”

* * *

Brienne’s fingers danced constantly against her ragged jeans as she stood in the hallway outside his office. This was the first time she visited him after the incident a month earlier. Back then she had simply stormed off and made do with what little cash she still had at home, but that was long gone now. She would have to face him one way or another.

A knock. He took his sweet time opening the door, as if his secretary had not already announced Brienne’s visit. She entered the office, dreading the moment when the door came to a close, leaving the two of them alone.

Rorge was a man in his thirties, arrogant enough to believe himself at the top of the world, in spite of the fact that his job offered little in the way of prestige. Though his position as a government employee required him to dress semi-decently, everything else about him was unpleasant. He was bulky, covered in dark, coarse hair, and most his nose was missing, a thick scar residing in its place.

Rorge was appointed as Brienne’s guardian after the passing of Cortnay Penrose—her former custodian—and he had immediately taken control of her bank accounts, allocating her only a small monthly stipend for her basic expenses. She had met with him the previous month to protest his decision, and he had silenced her with a slap to the face. Brienne was then forced to sit down and hear him go on about her inability to run her own life, her questionable behavior and the fact that he could do whatever he deemed necessary for her own good. She had, after all, been declared incompetent after murdering the man who broke into her house in Tarth when she was fifteen years old. It had been an attempt to defend herself and her father from the intruder, but the judge presiding over her case refused to give this mitigating factor much weight in his ruling. 

Now Brienne’s father was dead, and she had been appointed a guardian until her twenty-fifth year, which happened to be little less than a year away. Every penny of her inheritance had been frozen until then, as well, including her father’s estate in Tarth. Her first guardian, Cortnay Penrose, had been strict, but he allowed her to handle her finances and did not dig too deeply into the work she did for Evenstar Security, so long as she maintained a stable salary and her record remained clean. He had died under suspicious circumstances a few weeks earlier, however, and Rorge had been assigned to take his place.

“So you decided to show up again,” Rorge spat, slumping down on his chair loudly. Brienne stood awkwardly next to the door, wondering if she would have to leave in a hurry once again. But she had to see this through. “They always do, on their knees, begging my forgiveness. All you need is a firm hand and some guidance to sort you out.”

She stood there, biting her lip in silence. No matter how much Brienne was itching to get back at him, she knew she needed to keep her head clear.

“Are you going to pay the price for your allowance this time?” He huffed out his amusement. “For such an ugly bitch, you’re a whole lot of trouble.”

She fisted her hand and her breath caught in her throat. “No,” Brienne replied firmly through clenched teeth.

Every image of that day flooded her mind: the way he had pressed her against the wall, forcefully restraining her and grabbing at her breasts, feeling his foul breath on her face as his own approached her neck. Smelling her, mumbling words that she dare not hear. But she was strong and had managed to push him away as soon as the shock wore off. That move had gained her a heavy blow to the stomach, for which she still bore a large bruise. Not that she would show anyone. The state of King’s Landing was corrupt and cared far more about maintaining the bribes given to them by the big corporations than some girl from the system being abused by her appointed guardian.

Rorge had made sure to recite the many ways in which he could screw her over if she did not give him what he wanted. He also made sure Brienne understood how many contacts he had in high places, so she wouldn’t get any ideas of reporting him. It would have been useless anyway. No one who had spent almost a year in an institution for violent behavior would have any credibility. At the end he had struggled with her and pinned her to the floor, his disgusting spit raining down on her face with every threat, but she had kneed him in the crotch and fled before his behavior could escalate.

Brienne frowned at the memory, setting it aside as she had so many times before, while Rorge simply leered at her. If anything, her refusal to obey might be turning him on. To a creep like him she probably seemed a challenge, a way for him to prove his dominance. “Here’s what we’re gonna do,” he told her, placing his large hands on the desk. “You’re gonna get on the table and spread those ugly legs of yours, and I’m gonna fuck you until I’m well and pleased. Then I’ll sign the check for your allowance and pay you like the whore you are.”

The next thing she knew, her fist was connecting with the side of his face. He reacted immediately, pushing her down to the floor and trying to press his heavy frame against her, but Brienne was already prepared. Her taser caught him on the neck and a moment later he fell flat on the floor. She made sure he was fully unconscious before moving to tie him down to the chair, needing her entire strength to carry his hefty body.

By the time he opened his eyes, her laptop was open in front of him. She had made sure to cover his mouth with duct tape to avoid attracting unwanted attention, though Brienne was convinced Rorge’s secretary must be at least remotely aware of the situation, considering the kinds of noises that must have just left his office. Rorge’s small black eyes registered surprise as he became fully aware of his position, but his protests were muffled. Brienne grabbed him by the hair and forced him to look at the screen as she played him the audio of his own words, captured moments before. His eyes widened when the computer played a slideshow of the disgusting pictures she had found on his hard drive, proof that he had raped many of the women who had been assigned to his care. Women who were vulnerable, troubled, lost, like she had been many years ago.

“You hurt them, took advantage of them,” she hissed, tightening her grip on his hair. “You think we’re there for you to take, just because you’re Vargo Hoat’s lap dog. But this is as far as it goes.” She had to struggle not to beat him to death right there and then after seeing the atrocities he had committed, after having his filthy hands all over her body, trying to make her another victim. “I’ve contacted every single woman assigned to you right now. You try anything with them again, and I will send all of this to the DA faster than you can say _fuck you_. I have video footage from your house and your office from the past month, enough to get you locked up for good. You’re a pig and deserve to die, but I’m no killer.”

Brienne roughly let go of him and snapped her computer shut, shoving it back inside her bag. The punch she had given Rorge had been solid enough to make her knuckles ache, but the ensuing damage to the side of his face was worth it. The brute struggled wildly against his restraints, trying to break free, but soon enough gave up, understanding that she meant business.

“You’ll relinquish control of my bank accounts and report that there have been no incidents and that I qualify to leave my guardianship as planned in ten months.” With a last look of distaste at him, she finished, “And this evidence is already in the possession of somebody else, in case you try to kill me.” It would not be the first time someone made the attempt.

Once Brienne shut the door behind her, she approached Rorge’s secretary, who was looking at her with great interest. The young woman was slight and pretty, surely no older than her late teens. “If he tries anything with you,” Brienne told her, “tell him you have the proof. Just that. And e-mail me.” Brienne handed her a business card and left.

Half a block away, she stepped into an alley and threw up her entire dinner on the asphalt, her hands shaking uncontrollably. She felt light-headed and completely overwhelmed. It took her ten minutes to pull herself together long enough to make it to her dreadful apartment in Flea Bottom, where she took a hot shower, sobbing as the water ran down her trembling body.

* * *

Almost an entire day passed before Brienne felt strong enough to leave her bed and prepare something to eat. It was baffling that any human being could accumulate so many tragedies in such a short space of time: the death of her father, her struggles at school during her teenage years, Biter’s assault and Rorge’s near rape. Brienne lived her life trying to believe that her fate would change, that as soon as she was released from the custody of her guardians she could finally forge her own path, but it could not come soon enough for her liking.

Only Goodwin’s kindness and her work kept her going. She took refuge in the company of her computer, it was the one thing that allowed her to connect to anyone in the world, to find their secrets and use them to defend herself and to protect others.

Her mind turned to her last altercation with Rorge. It was true that she could have killed him or turned him in, but she was afraid someone worse would come along in his place—at least she had something to hold over his head now. But as soon as she was free, she had other plans for him.

Brienne logged into her MacBook hoping to find something to distract her from her thoughts, and was greeted by the sight of that folder on her desktop. _JL_. She clicked on it and opened her report, carefully reviewing the information within and wondering what the Tullys would think when they read it. As she reached the bottom of the document, she focused on the words that she had nearly left out.

**OTHER RELATIONSHIPS**

_Cersei Lannister. 41. Married to Judge Robert Baratheon with three children: Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen Baratheon._

_Relationship: Stepsister. Came into the family two years after Joanna Lannister’s death._

_Relevance: Has been involved in a sexual relationship with Jaime Lannister for years, including during her marriage to Robert Baratheon. The affair became unstable once Jaime was disowned by their father, and seemingly ended over six months ago when he became invested in his research against Aerys Targaryen._

_Lannister has had no other romantic relationships since then._

Brienne stared at the last sentence, recalling the previous week, when she had been surveilling Jaime in his regular coffee shop, trying to determine his relationship with a woman that sat opposite him. As a matter of course, Brienne had investigated her as well: her name was Pia and she was a graphic designer in charge of _Millennium’s_ layout and corporate image, while also taking care of most of the magazine’s public relations. Pia and Jaime had coffee from time to time, but he never displayed any body language that might indicate they were lovers, and always kept a respectful distance between them. Besides, as far as Brienne had observed, Pia only had eyes for _Millennium’s_ photographer, Josmyn Peckledon.

Investigating her target’s romantic relationships was by far the most uncomfortable part of the job for Brienne, but it was required of her, so she begrudgingly did it. Goodwin had explained that it helped establish meaningful connections when it came to finances, custody or even as motive for murder—passion led people to do unexpected things. 

Either way, she was exceedingly good at what she did. Brienne decided early on that she would only investigate questionable targets, refusing to accept clients like suspicious wives or employees who wanted leverage over their bosses. And at the end of the day, she always found dirt on them, validating her scrutiny; she had uncovered enough corruption and abuse to last her a lifetime. If there was any way she could protect innocents from being exploited like she had been her entire life, even indirectly, she was glad to do it.

But Jaime Lannister did not qualify in her book. She had been convinced that he was guilty at first; that he was simply his father’s puppet trying to cause the Targaryens enough damage so that LanCorp could take over their market share. However, as Brienne dug further, she had been proven wrong—Jaime did not appear to be the most pleasant person in the world, and she found his affair with his own stepsister somewhat repellant, but he was an ethical journalist and his gut had been right when it came to Aerys Targaryen. He had just been caught in a trap especially designed for him.

What struck Brienne the most was about Jaime was how alone he was. Most of her targets had endless amounts of human interaction on their cellphones, their Facebook accounts, their e-mails, be it with friends, family or occasional lovers. As she saw it, Jaime had only two important figures in his life: his brother Tyrion and Cersei Lannister, and the latter refused to return his messages. Other than that, all of Jaime’s communications were related to _Millennium_.

Brienne knew a thing or two about living a solitary existence. Goodwin was attentive and genuinely nice to her, and she knew a young programmer called Podrick who she had caught trying to get into her remote files once. The young man had turned out to be quiet and even shyer than she, and his intrusion had been no more than a mistake while trying to access his own account. Pod also lived in the city, so she had agreed to teach him a few things about hacking, and the boy had become quite enthusiastic about security ever since.

There was also Hyle Hunt, whom she had met during her first office job. He was a pretty insufferable guy by most standards, and his main hobby was making jokes at her expense. Nevertheless, she had begun sleeping with him when she turned twenty-one, partly out of a wish to experiment and partly because she needed some human contact to keep her loneliness at bay.

Brienne stared at Jaime’s picture on the corner of her screen. Everything about him was striking: his green eyes, his jaw, the speckles of gray in his beard, the hint of malice that hung permanently over his gaze. Even his body drew the eye, but in spite of all that, he never took any women—or men—home with him. It puzzled her and tugged at her curiosity more than she cared to admit.

Biting her lip, she double-clicked the program she developed to watch his desktop remotely. Instead of browsing the Internet for pornography like any man his age would so late at night, he was clicking through old pictures from his collection. There was one of him and Tyrion, another of him and his father, one of Cersei in a sundress, smiling beautifully at the camera. The latter he scrolled away from quickly, like it stung him. Then he paused on a picture of the King’s Landing Journalism Association. In it, Jaime stood in front of a podium, proudly holding his award as Political Journalist of 2012 for his article on abuse against women in one of Harrenhal’s bleakest prisons.

“His career,” Brienne said aloud, to no one in particular, setting aside her coffee mug. _It’s all he had left, and now they’ve taken it from him_. Jaime closed the slideshow and his computer stayed still until the screen faded to black, so she shut the program down. The clock told her it was 11:51 PM. Brienne found herself picturing him heading to his room and climbing into bed alone. Golden and beautiful and, as of now, completely screwed.

Her pointer traveled all the way down to the last document listed in her JL folder. Untitled.txt. There was no need to open it to recall exactly what it said, or rather, what had been left unsaid in her report, under the ‘other relationships’ section.

**ADDITIONAL NOTES**

_Jaime Lannister is the father of all three of Cersei Lannister’s children. They are not aware of it, but he is._

Why she had decided against revealing it, Brienne did not know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My eternal thanks to [Ladyoftarth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladyoftarth/pseuds/Ladyoftarth) for this gorgeous, amazing piece of art! And to [fleetingmusings](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fleetingmusings/pseuds/fleetingmusings) as well, for requesting it! I'm so blessed to have an artist like you dedicating your time to this story!
> 
>   
>  [ ](http://ladyoftarth-posts.tumblr.com/post/82663582678/for-ellarias-everyone-has-secrets-an-art)   
> 


	3. Rumors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: [Alice In Chains - Rooster](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x0FAosDi4XA) | [Lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/aliceinchains/rooster.html) | Beta'ed by [YellowDelaney](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowDelaney/pseuds/YellowDelaney)

Chapter 3: Rumors

_“There’s always someone willing to believe malicious rumors.”_

* * *

“Open the fucking door,” Jaime said, knocking for the umpteenth time. “I know you’re in there, and I know you’re alone. Just open the door, Cersei.”

His stepsister’s mansion was almost as luxurious as their childhood home, but there was currently no maid in charge of receiving visitors. Cersei had a tendency to rotate them with more frequency than her underwear, insisting that they stole from her or made eyes at Robert, or that they gossiped about her behind her back.

The only other inhabitants of the mansion were absent. Robert worked long hours and fucked other women in his spare time; Joffrey had left for college two years earlier, and both Tommen and Myrcella were at school until late afternoon, when they were done with their extensive extracurricular activities.

Just when Jaime was about to give up, Cersei appeared, opening the door with an expression between annoyance and disbelief. “What exactly are you doing here?” she asked him, cutting to the chase. “I thought I made it clear that it was best for us to stay apart. Am I going to have to move back to Casterly Rock for you to leave me alone?”

Jaime approached her and placed his hands around her waist, savoring the sensation of her body close to his. But it did not last long; she soon pulled away, stepping back with a frown. “You’ll fuck Lancel, you’ll fuck Osmund Kettleblack, but you want nothing to do with me?” he spat, raising his voice. “Or do you just rotate your suitors so you don’t grow bored?”

That earned him a solid slap, but he barely felt it through the heat of his emotions. He was angry and tired, the media attention on his sentencing being far greater than he had foreseen. Day and night he received phone calls, e-mails and text messages, and more than once he had been approached by paparazzi or reporters during his meals out.

To make matters worse, he did not even have _Millennium_ to distract himself. He felt most alive when he was chasing after a story, following a trail, writing his articles and reveling in the joy of that one moment when the issue of the month hit the stands. Now he had lost his career, his relationship with his father was nonexistent—if anything, Jaime was now convinced that Tywin was involved in his misfortune—and though he had thought he was over Cersei, he somehow still itched to have her so he could fuck himself into oblivion. He had never been with any other woman, and the thought of using some girl for a one-night stand made him strangely uncomfortable. Cersei he _could_ use, and it would be pretty fair to do it, too. She had used him, after all, manipulating him into solving all her problems back when he was still rich and working at LanCorp.

But he was too proud to ask for it, and too angry with her to go through with it.

“You think you can just come to my house and speak like this to me? We haven’t even seen each other in half a year, brother.”

Jaime stared at Cersei’s hips as she walked away, almost open-mouthed at the sight of her curves in her dark red dress. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He wanted her, he always had, no matter how long they’d been apart.

His stepsister headed back to the living room, picking up a half-empty glass of wine from the coffee table. She settled herself in front of the television, which was showing some mind-numbing interview of a famous model. After taking a sip of her wine, she looked at him, her flaring green eyes full of condescension. “There is nothing for us to talk about.”

“I know you still want me,” he told her in a rasping voice, unable to contain the words from spilling out like an unstoppable current. He knew he should not have spent half the morning in a bar before coming to see her; being less than fully cognizant around Cersei was never a good idea. _Fucking Tyrion and his belief that drinking solves everything_. “You might have any number of men in your bed, but no one is a part of you like I am.” He had said those words so many times before and meant them, so why did he sound like a broken record now? Why did he feel like he was reciting some textbook prose whose meaning he no longer understood?

She raised an eyebrow, studied him, her lips curling into a smirk. “I see what this is. You’re pissed off because you made a mess that you can’t clean up. So you think you can just come here and fuck me and leave, like some sort of medicinal booty call.” Cersei laughed under her breath. “You should’ve known that I’d never take you back after you refused me.”

He did know. Jaime was not even sure what he was doing here, but he had felt a pang of regret upon looking at a picture of Tommen and Myrcella on the wall when he walked in. Through the haze of the abundant whiskey that was only just kicking in and dulling his senses, he saw a purpose, an actual goal. He saw everything that was in the past, all of what was behind him. _Father. Millennium. Cersei_. But then he saw the future spread before him, all that was left. “You’re not the only one who lives here, sis. Have you forgotten my children live here, too?”

She huffed. “Are they your children now, Jaime? You were happy enough to stay away from them all these years. It’s not their fault your life is going up in flames. You’re barely their uncle and nothing else.”

“I don’t know about that,” he retorted angrily. “I’m thinking it’s high time they find out who their father is, and gain some perspective on their mother as well.”

“Get _out_!” she exclaimed, and for a moment he thought she might throw the wine glass at him. “I don’t want you here. Don’t even _think_ about threatening me again.”

“It was no threat. I have rights and I think I should start exercising them.”

Her patience exhausted and she strode to the door and flung it open, her cheeks flushed with rage. “Leave before I call the police. See what that does to your shitty reputation. I’m sick of you.”

After walking a couple of steps, he stumbled, barely managing to catch himself before falling flat on his face. Cersei rolled her eyes at that and as soon as he was outside, slammed the door on his face. He slumped down on the steps in front of her house indignantly, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it. _So this is what rock bottom feels like_ , he thought as he took a long drag.

Not a minute had passed before his cell phone began ringing. His almost automatic reaction at this point was refusing every call, but his drunken instinct led him to pick up.

“Jaime Lannister,” a man on the other end said in an obnoxious tone. “This is Edmure Tully. I’m contacting you on behalf of my uncle Brynden. We need to have a chat.”

Jaime took another drag from his cigarette and exhaled, leaning his back against Cersei’s front door and extending his legs in front of him. A sharp ‘hello?’ woke him from his spell and he replied, “What in seven hells do the Tullys want with me? I thought you people hated Lannisters on principle.”

“Like I said, this is my uncle’s business. And we need to discuss it privately.”

 _Curiouser and curiouser_ , Jaime thought, his interest piqued. Although his head was spinning and it was probably not the best time to make important decisions, he was convinced that his life could not get much worse.

“Tell me where,” he replied at last.

* * *

Edmure met him in the lobby of one of King’s Landing’s most lavish hotels. Jaime recognized him easily from the newspapers; the Tully family was almost as high profile as his own. Edmure was frowning deeply, his hands stuck in the pockets of his black suit. He pursed his lips as he spotted Jaime walking towards him—in a straight line, thanks to the copious amounts of coffee he had drunk to sober up.

“I’m guessing there’s no need for niceties?” Jaime asked, not even bothering to extend his hand. “Where is this meeting taking place?”

“Follow me,” the younger man said dryly, leading him to the elevators. Edmure ran his key card through a receiver inside, activating the button for the penthouse. Jaime wondered why they did not simply head for the bar, seeing as how it was just the two of them.

When the doors opened, Jaime understood. Brynden Tully sat at a table near the window of the suite’s ample living room, staring out at the city, his face illuminated by the dim light of a foot lamp. He was in his seventies and sported a neatly trimmed beard, while his gray hair grew almost to his shoulders, not unlike Jaime’s. His suit was simpler than Edmure’s and he wore a jersey instead of a jacket, with his tie neatly tucked inside. He had dark rings under his eyes and did not stand to receive Jaime, rather gesturing for him to sit opposite him. Jaime complied, feeling nothing short of shocked. Brynden Tully had not left Winterfell—or even the Stark estate, if the rumors were to be believed—since the Red Wedding.

Jaime’s expression must have betrayed him, because Brynden immediately said, “Surprised to see me, I’m sure. I went through a lot of trouble to make sure my presence in the city went unnoticed. I even had to ride the service elevator up.” He cleared his throat. His voice was gruff, but his tone was not hostile, like his nephew’s. “My being here should tell you how important this business is for me. And considering the history of conflict between our families, you must also know that it took great consideration choosing you for the task.”

“You seem to have this all planned out, yet I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Jaime replied, casually appraising the man before him. Everything about the situation was odd. “What is it you want from me?”

“To hire you. I need you to research something for me. Something extremely confidential and more intricate than anything you’ve had your hands on before,” Brynden told him. “A disappearance.”

Jaime was taken aback. “I’m no detective. It’s the Night’s Watch that should investigate any disappearances.”

“There’s a reason why I can’t involve the police. But before I explain, I need you to swear on your ethics as a journalist that whether or not you accept, what I’m about to tell you will not leave this room.”

“Well, I can’t very well say yes or no before I know what this is about. I’ll keep quiet about it either way.” Jaime couldn’t deny that he was intrigued by the older man’s words.

“Little over a month ago, a group of Freys was killed during a dinner party at Riverrun. The Night’s Watch has no idea who could be behind it, since no evidence was left behind, but what they don’t know is that I received this.” Tully handed him a slip of paper. It was typed on a computer and its words were scant: `THE NORTH REMEMBERS`. “It arrived on the day of the murders.”

Jaime squinted at the words, working out the connections in his head. Last month had been the ten-year anniversary of the Red Wedding; the media had made a big fuss about it. The message arriving so close to that date would indicate that a Stark was behind it, but ever since that incident, Westeros had been sorely lacking in Starks.

“Your great-nephews?” Jaime asked, stating the obvious.

“Bran and Rickon are at boarding school in Skagos. I made sure to verify that. At the time of the murders, Bran was sitting his exams for college and Rickon was taking a horseback riding lesson.”

“There are no other Starks around anymore, which puts you in a difficult position.”

“That’s where you come in, Lannister.”

Jaime placed his elbows on the table and looked out the window, turning the evidence over in his mind. Most of the people murdered during the Red Wedding were Starks, aside from a couple of Freys and Robb Stark’s wife Jeyne Westerling. But the Westerlings had packed up and moved to Essos after the tragedy, sick of the media’s intrusion in their lives. Whoever had sent the message must have a strong connection to the Blackfish—as Brynden had been long known. He had been in the fishing industry with his brother Hoster before the latter’s death, and somehow the epithet was born and had stuck.

The day of the Red Wedding, the Blackfish had meant to accompany the Starks to the event, but a last minute commitment had made it impossible for him to attend. It was said his loss was so great that he had abandoned his entire life in Riverrun and established himself in Winterfell, doing little but watch the days go by while Edmure ran Silver Trout Inc. in his stead. Rumor had it that the older man was tormented by the brutality of the event, but the entire story had always seemed fishy to Jaime.

In the wake of Jaime’s silence, Tully continued, “The world sees me as a hermit who decided to lock himself up after the Starks died, but that’s not the truth of it. For ten years I have explored every inch of the Stark estate in Winterfell, every corner, every document, and time after time I have found myself chasing my own tail. What I have been doing, Lannister, is searching for Sansa Stark.”

Jaime inhaled sharply. “Sansa Stark is dead.”

Brynden shook his head. “Not so. She was presumed dead and the police stopped searching after a few months, so it became common knowledge that she had died along with the rest. But, unlike them, her body was never found. She simply vanished.”

“So you believe Sansa is the one behind the murders and that she sent you this note. You want to find her, but you don’t want to involve the police, in order to protect her from any homicide charges.”

A small smile appeared on Brynden’s face, and for a moment there were shades of the young man he once was. What the Blackfish proposed was ridiculous, but the more Jaime thought about it, the more his fingers ached to begin writing down the facts, researching evidence, spotting the loopholes in every theory.

It would be odd for him to work for the Tullys—they had never managed to establish successful business in the face of his father’s subsidiaries. Not to mention that Winter Motors, the Starks’ company, had been on Tywin’s black list since they started developing solar-powered vehicles, threatening LanCorp in the process.

“Surely there are many private investigators who could help you find her. Why me?” Jaime asked finally.

“Because, as far as the world will know, you will be writing a book for me,” Tully answered. “A book about the Red Wedding. Seven hells, you _will_ actually have to write the book. But that will be your cover during the investigation, so you can have access to all the archives and interview all the persons of interest without raising suspicion. And it makes sense for me to agree to the whole thing as a way to let go of it, ten years after the fact.”

It was all well planned out, simple, straightforward. Except that following the trail of Sansa Stark would be like searching for a needle in a haystack; she could be anywhere in Westeros, the Free Cities, Essos; she could be dead like everyone believed. The note could have been nothing more than a ridiculous prank from someone who was aware of the Frey murders.

“I couldn’t even guarantee any results.”

Edmure, who had been sitting on the couch listening intently, stood and handed Jaime a file. It contained a bank statement for one of the older man’s accounts with a balance of exactly one million dragons. There was also a contract stating that Jaime was allowed to access any information pertaining the Tully and Stark families, and a photograph of a small house covered in snow.

It was Brynden who spoke then, “You’ll live Winterfell, in that house, fully equipped with the material of the investigation, and with an expense account for whatever you need. You will have a year to finish the book and research the case. If at the end of it you only have the book, we will pay you one million dragons; should you find Sansa, it will be eight million instead.”

Jaime smirked. “What makes you think I need the money?”

At that Edmure intervened, every word tainted with spite. “You think yourself a mystery, Lannister? We know your father disowned you and all your money went to pay Aerys Targaryen’s compensation. You had to leave your magazine to protect it, meaning that you don’t even have a job or a source of income, and no one will want to hire you after that mess.” Brynden remained silent during his nephew’s discourse. Apparently they were playing good cop, bad cop now. “You have nothing and no one in King’s Landing. Your brother will be twice as busy keeping the magazine afloat, and you’ve got no one to warm your bed, either.” He huffed. “Your stepsister—or should I say, _lover_ —has apparently seen sense and ended your affair.”

Jaime’s eyes narrowed to slits as his pulse quickened. How much did they know—and _how_? He ached to throw a punch in Edmure’s direction for his insolence, but he had practiced this drill way too many times. _Reacting with rage would prove them right, brother_ , Cersei had said repeatedly throughout their relationship. _You must always maintain the impression of calm_.

“A rumor. Nothing more,” Jaime affirmed, relaxing into his chair and casually draping his elbow over the back of it. “And about everything else, you’ve done your homework. I’d think you people were too _honorable_ to have some ridiculous PI follow me, but I guess I was wrong.”

“The Starks are the honorable ones,” Edmure replied. “We’re Tullys, and we’re cautious.” The idiot probably thought he was being very clever with his barely veiled threats.

Jaime pulled another cigarette out of the pocket of his jeans and lit it. He wondered what else they knew and when it might come to the forefront. But then, it would make no sense, seeing as how they had just spilled their own secrets. If Jaime chose to go ahead with it, he was certain that there would be a begrudging trust between both parties and nothing more. What amazed him was their willingness to hire him after the Targaryen deal went down. Did they somehow know he was innocent? Everyone else had judged him guilty quickly enough. Perhaps they just didn’t care.

 _Father. Millennium. Cersei_. He had nothing, he _was_ nothing, and he was being offered a legitimate chance to both rescue his career from the flames that consumed it, and to get away from a city that held nothing for him but contempt. A year would fly by, and he would actually get to see more than a penny in his damn bank account. A laugh escaped him. _Father would be so proud seeing me like this, without a cent to my name, while he sits in his high ground and shits gold_.

Jaime stared at the picture of the house, focusing on the thick layer of snow atop it. Half an afternoon earlier he had been drunk on his stepsister’s porch, wondering what the fuck he was going to do with his life. Now, against all odds, he was being handed a purpose on a silver platter.

He had learned the harsh lesson that not all that glittered was gold, but finding himself between a rock and a hard place, he finally said, “Looks like I’ll be freezing my ass off in the snow for the next year.”


	4. Freaks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: [Tool - Schism](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I1YM476Pa4o) | [Lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/tool/schism.html) | Beta'ed by [YellowDelaney](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowDelaney/pseuds/YellowDelaney)

 

Chapter 4: Freaks

_What an excellent tool the Internet was for freaks._

* * *

The house in Winterfell was almost as small as a studio apartment. It only had one story, the kitchen and the living room were cramped together, and both bedrooms could barely fit anything more than the bed. The bigger one had already been prepared for Jaime, while the smaller room was completely occupied by six boxes full of records and relevant information for his research. The entire house had been thoroughly cleaned.

From his window, Jaime could see the Stark estate up on a hill, a little less than a mile away. The distance would allow him to meet easily with Brynden, while at the same time provide him with enough privacy to go about his day without the feeling he was being monitored.

As Jaime had expected, the weather in Winterfell was a far cry from the comforts of the coastal climate in King’s Landing. Though winter had come and gone a couple of years earlier, a cold front in the North had made the temperature drop substantially, and, as he unloaded his suitcases from the trunk of his car, a light snow began to fall, covering everything around him.

Once Jaime was done unpacking his clothes and toiletries and making himself at home, there came a knock on the door. Brynden had not yet come to see him, so he thought it might be him, but as it turned out it was Farlen, the groundskeeper who had received Jaime and handed him the keys to the house. Farlen was tall and very well-built, undoubtedly from the upkeep Winterfell required: clearing the snow off the pathways, caring for the dogs that helped keep the wolves away, as well as serving as a handyman for Brynden at the manor.

Farlen was also a man of few words, if Jaime’s first impression was correct. “Mr. Brynden asks that you meet him for dinner,” the man told Jaime in his deep tone of voice. “He expects you at five.”

“Fine,” Jaime replied, holding the door open. His bones felt chilled in spite of the heavy coat he wore; his hood was up and he had been wearing woolen gloves since he arrived, but they did nothing to give him any respite from the cold. “Is the thermostat in this house broken, or is Winterfell just always a fucking igloo?”

“It’s broken,” Farlen replied with a shrug. “No one’s lived ‘ere in ages. I’ll fix it while you’re at dinner.”

Jaime merely nodded and the man walked away. Closing the door, he slumped down on the couch and stared at a set of folders on the coffee table. They were probably the most important documents, to be set apart from the rest. As he inspected the files on the first one, he realized they were copies of the official police records from the Red Wedding, whereas the other probably contained additional information gathered by the Blackfish over the past ten years.

The first document was old, its edges were worn out and the paper was more yellow than white. Jaime turned on the foot lamp beside the couch and began to read.

`SEAGARD POLICE DEPARTMENT`  
`DENYS MALLISTER, CHIEF OF POLICE`

`* * * *`

`CASE FILE RVR-18751232003`

`[ ] ARRESTED [ ] CHARGED [x] INVESTIGATION DROPPED`

`NATURE OF CASE: Multiple Homicide`

`VICTIMS:`

`Arryn, Lysa (Deceased)`  
`Brown, Mordane (Deceased)`  
`Frey, Joyeuse (Deceased)`  
`Frey, Olyvar (Deceased)`  
`Manderly, Wendel (Deceased)`  
`Piper, Marq (Injured)`  
`Stark, Catelyn (Deceased)`  
`Stark, Robb (Deceased)`  
`Stark, Sansa (Missing)`  
`Umber Sr., Jon (Injured)`  
`Westerling, Jeyne (Deceased)`

`SUSPECTS:`

`Contract killing executed by the Kingswood Brotherhood`

`RELEASE:`

`On June 21, 2003 at approximately 11:48 PM, personnel from the Seagard Police Department received a report of multiple deceased and injured at the Twins. When the officers and paramedics arrived at the scene, eight of the victims were declared dead and both Jon Umber Sr. and Marq Piper were transported to the nearest emergency room. Witnesses reported that the guests were gathered in the main hall at the time, celebrating a wedding, when a group of armed individuals locked the doors and opened fire.`

`Though one of the attackers reportedly suffered an injury, there was no blood that could be traced, and the assailants left no other identifiable trail. Further investigation revealed that the Kingswood Brotherhood, a criminal organization, was in the Riverlands at the time. The plates of the car outside the building matched one of the vehicles associated with the organization.`

`Sansa Stark, who was seen entering the room, was declared missing. She was never caught on tape leaving the premises, and her body has not been found.`

`OTHER NOTES:`

`Unlike the rest of the victims, Lysa Arryn’s body was found on the yard of the estate. The cause of death was a fall from a height of seven stories. It was determined that she was in one of the two main towers of the ancient castle at the time of the fall. Cause of death was ruled a suicide. TOD was estimated at an hour after the shooting.`

Jaime read the report so thoroughly while taking notes that the rest of the afternoon flew by. The photographs and the details he found in other documents were far more gruesome than anything he had seen while researching his articles; Robb Stark’s body in particular was a bloody mess. He had been killed execution-style, shot in the back of the head while on his knees, asking the attackers to spare his wife. Jeyne Westerling was very young, barely nineteen years old, and she had been pregnant at the time. Catelyn Stark had been shot in the neck and was probably dead before she hit the ground.

When Jaime decided to take a break and stretch his legs, he noticed the time on his cell phone was 5:14 PM. He did not much care about making the Blackfish wait for him, but he was starving and had yet to visit a grocery store to fill his refrigerator. Grabbing his keys as he left, he made his way to the Stark estate.

* * *

Salmon. Jaime should have expected some kind of fish; the Tullys were never ones for subtle messages, but the delicious whiff of lemon and honey coming from the plate was enough for him to ignore it. He dug into the food enthusiastically, only then realizing that he had missed lunch while he’d been engrossed with the reports.

“Is the house comfortable enough?” Tully asked, cutting a piece of his own fish. “Other than the cold, of course.”

“It’s fine,” Jaime replied between bites. “It’s small, but it’s not like I’m getting a roommate anytime soon. So long as Farlen fixes the thermostat, I won’t need anything else. Well, I’ll need directions to the nearest market.”

“Everything here revolves around Winter Town. It’s not a big place, but you have all your basic businesses: coffee shops, restaurants, bookstores, grocery stores, pharmacies. For anything else you’ll have to go to White Harbor.”

 _We’re basically at the end of the fucking world_ , Jaime thought bitterly, _and I’m right in the middle of it, freezing my ass off and all by myself_.

“I read the reports you left on the coffee table,” he told Brynden, taking a sip of the Arbor white that the housekeeper, Palla, had served him. “It’s an impressive collection you’ve got there, and I have yet to check the boxes. I do have something to ask—why is Arya Stark missing from all the documents? I thought she had also attended the wedding. It was his uncle’s, after all, and she was not as young as the boys.”

Brynden placed his fork and knife on the plate and rested his elbows on the table, sighing heavily. Though his expression was hard to decipher, his eyes were nostalgic and full of regret. There was definitely more to the story than Jaime knew.

“Arya left the Twins about an hour before the shooting; she was caught on camera. No one knows where she was going, but she was in quite a hurry. The police speculated that she had an argument with Sansa. They were always bickering, and though it would usually wind down after a few minutes, sometimes they would not speak to each other for days. Arya was a little fireball, and being only ten years old, she would have hardly worried about what might happen to her for storming off like that.” Brynden grasped the fork once more and picked at the food on his plate, his eyes lost in the memories. “I was relieved, you know. When it all went down and they found her on tape, I was relieved that she had left. ‘She was lucky,’ I told myself, ‘they would have killed her, too, if she had stayed’.”

Jaime frowned and drank some more wine, his food now gone. After a moment of silence, he said, “I’m guessing you searched for her.”

“Four years I searched. Would that I had not found her. You’ll see the pictures yourself in one of the boxes.” The older man fisted his right hand. “She was found dead in King’s Landing in 2007, barely fourteen years old. Someone raped her and slashed her throat, then dumped her body in an alleyway, like she was nothing.”

His heart sped up in spite of himself, and he found it difficult to swallow. The Red Wedding, though horrific, was a completely different sort of crime, something of bigger proportions that at the very least had been motivated by politics and greed. But to kill such a young girl, to know that she had died scared and alone, assaulted by some sick bastard, made his stomach turn. Not even the last of his wine managed to wash away the bitter taste the tale left on his tongue.

“I have to find Sansa,” the Blackfish said softly, staring Jaime straight in the eyes, momentarily setting aside his dislike for him. “It’s what Cat would want. I promised her if something ever happened to her, I would watch over her kids; I promised I’d be their guardian. Her daughter is out there somewhere.”

It all came down to Sansa. It was for her that Jaime was being given a second chance; it was on her behalf that he would write a book that would propel his career back to its former status. Other than Brandon and Rickon, she was the last of the Starks, the last survivor of an era where they dropped like flies. Jaime did not care for Starks, but he thought the massacre had been cowardly and shameful, and Arya Stark’s death was nothing short of brutal.

The puzzle had been set out in front of him and he had to prove to himself that he could fit the pieces together, those pieces of the map that would lead him to Sansa, a lion hunting a wolf in the widest of fields.

* * *

It was midnight by the time Jaime managed to pry his eyes away from the archives on Arya Stark’s death. The images had done nothing to improve the strangely irritable mood he was in after his dinner with Tully. Earlier he had felt far more nonchalant about the investigation; though it was a matter of pride for him to achieve his goal, he only had to meet his own expectations. Handling other people’s had never been his specialty, not after his father’s irrational demands, and Tully’s reasons for the search were so stupidly noble that he found himself feeling respect for the man.

Rubbing his tired eyes, Jaime headed for his bedroom and opened the laptop that was resting on the bedside table. His intention was to distract himself online with whatever he could find—more likely than not, rotten articles about him on every other news website—but his eyes were drawn to one of the folders that was shared with the mansion over the wide-range Wi-Fi network.

The directory was marked ‘edmure-home’. Though Edmure had already returned to Riverrun, he visited his uncle often, so he probably had a local computer to use during his stays in Winterfell. Jaime clicked on it and gained access to several folders. Some of them contained files from his company, while others had family pictures that Jaime had no interest in viewing, but there was one named ‘JL’ that drew his attention. After over a week of their first meeting, he was still itching to find out how Edmure knew so much about him, including confidential details like his account balance.

Every answer was inside, just waiting for him, in the form of three files: ‘Sunburst Investigations Jaime Lannister’, ‘Merryweather Researchers Report’ and ‘Evenstar Security JL Report 2013’. That Tully bastard had not thought it was enough for one security company to dig into his personal life, he had to hire _three_ of them.

The first two were scant in personal details and focused more on his professional life than anything else, which was already public enough, so Jaime guessed that they were not much help. Evenstar Security’s report, on the other hand, was so detailed that he could only sit there, frowning indignantly.

His breath caught in his throat when he reached page 20 of the text, which featured an article titled ‘ _Millennium_ Press Release’. Jaime scrolled back up to the first page. The date of the report was three days after his sentencing, and the press release was nearly the same he had published the morning after leaving the magazine.

Nearly.

The last paragraph Jaime had corrected at least ten times. He had added and removed sentences, mulled over every single word, deleted parts of it only to write them back in, so he knew it by heart. There was one word that he had changed at the end: _power-hungry_ had become _self-important_. Evenstar’s report had the older word; that version of the file only existed in his computer. So whoever had redacted the report had included the press statement in it before Jaime actually delivered it after being declared guilty. He felt as if all of his secrets were on display in front of this anonymous stranger.

He gritted his teeth and copied the report to his hard drive, then closed the window with Edmure’s shared folder. He created a new file in his desktop titled ‘Intruder.txt’.

`I KNOW WHERE YOU ARE`, he wrote, and waited.

His eyes were growing watery ten minutes later from staring at the screen so intently, but at last, a new sentence appeared below his.

`TRY AND FIND ME.`


	5. Everyone Has Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This is Bri’s t-shirt](http://www.thinkgeek.com/product/e855). Song: [The White Stripes - Blue Orchid](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QoL8ZxAx4HI) | [Lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/whitestripes/blueorchid.html) | Beta'ed by [YellowDelaney](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowDelaney/pseuds/YellowDelaney)

Chapter 5: Everyone Has Secrets

_“Everyone has secrets. It’s just a matter of finding out what they are.”_

* * *

When Brienne opened her eyes, a stream of light filtering through the curtains of her bedroom nearly blinded her. She blinked twice and rolled over, pulling the sheet up to her chin and failing to stifle a yawn. She tried to stretch her arms and legs, but something hard stopped her progress. Startled, she sat up with the covers tightly clutched against her nude chest.

 _This fucking idiot_.

“Hyle,” she called, punching him on the shoulder, “Hyle, wake up. What in seven hells are you doing here?”

A groan was all the reply she got. Rolling her eyes, she pushed Hunt with one of her long legs, causing him to fall off her bed with a thump. He frowned, half-asleep, and turned to look at her with bleary eyes. “What the fuck?”

“You can’t sleep here,” Brienne reminded him, shielding herself with her white sheets, though Hunt remained completely naked. Giving him a disapproving glance, she reached for the clothing that was sprawled on a chair beside her bed and threw it at him.

“I fell asleep last night, I was fucking tired,” Hyle groaned hoarsely, stumbling to his feet and throwing on his jeans, then his t-shirt. Backwards. “Believe me, it wasn’t about waking up to your angry face.”

 _Asshole_. Unable to find her own clothes, which were probably neatly folded somewhere, Brienne put on her underwear and grabbed a white tank top from the bedside table. Not that it mattered much; the first thing she needed to do was climb in the shower.

As she passed by the kitchen, she filled her coffee pot with water and turned it on, rubbing the lingering drowsiness from her eyes. Once Hyle was done using the bathroom, he approached her. “That’s very rude, you know, not offering me some coffee the morning after.”

Brienne simply ignored him, deciding that she’d had too much of the man’s presence to last her an entire year. It was not as if sleeping with him was mind-blowing, but sometimes she needed to release the tension, and for the past week she had been on the edge.

It was all Jaime Lannister’s fault.

Well, if Brienne thought about it, it was not so much his fault as Edmure Tully’s. Not only because he had been the one to handle all the investigations on behalf of Brynden Tully, but because he didn’t have the common sense to delete the reports from his shared folder when he moved them to his laptop while staying in Winterfell. Brienne should have known better; she should have checked all the files on the Tullys’ network through Lannister’s computer, and deleted any of those that he could access. It was sloppy and careless and completely unlike her. She had never gotten so distracted by a target that she missed a step cleaning up her trail, and now he was onto her.

It had been a bit over a week since Lannister had left her that message on his desktop, and there was still no sign of the journalist. No phone calls from him or Goodwin about her report, no more text documents in his computer to contact her, nothing. It made Brienne jumpy to be left hanging in the air like that, not knowing if he was bluffing or truly in the process of tracking her. He had not even used his laptop again, though it remained on, and he was regularly charging it. After the investigation she had removed her software from his cell phone, feeling, absurdly enough, that he should have some privacy. She regretted it now that she was unable to locate him through GPS.

As soon as the message had appeared and her initial panic faded, she had set up a tracker on the desktop of her MacBook that monitored his location at all times from his IP. For days the tag said ‘Winterfell’. What he was doing there, she was not sure, but seeing as how it involved Brynden Tully, she guessed it must be some business related to the Starks. The Tullys had taken a great interest in his ethics as a journalist, so they must have offered him a job covering a story.

Whatever the case, the past week in its entirety had revolved around Lannister. No new jobs had turned up for Brienne at Evenstar Security. Since she only accepted certain types of targets, she could go without a case for months, so she made sure to stretch the money from each report as far as she could. Sitting at home with no new assignments to occupy her mind, she found herself constantly speculating about Jaime’s motives for being at Winterfell, wondering how he had discovered that she was in his computer, or trying to guess what could be so important to bring a Tully and a Lannister together.

The smell of a cigarette coming from across the kitchen brought her back from her thoughts. “I’ve told you I don’t want you smoking in here,” Brienne said irritably, “and you should go. I have things to do.”

Hyle laughed and headed for the door, blowing the smoke all over the room and waving at her as he went. “See you in a few months for our usual,” he said, amused. “I’ll be expecting coffee next time.”

Once he was gone, she realized he had left his jacket behind. Hunt had a talent for making excuses to return to her apartment after each of their encounters, so Brienne had developed a hound-like ability to spot any items he might leave. She opened the door and found him at the end of the hallway, awaiting the elevator. “Stop _doing_ that,” she bellowed, flinging the offending piece of clothing towards him. He grabbed it and shot her a grin as he got on the elevator.

Brienne’s brain was still so fuzzy that she failed to notice she was standing outside of her apartment in her underwear, until a voice behind her said, “I knew you’d be waiting for me, but I thought you’d be wearing a little more than that.”

* * *

A woman.

Jaime’s preconceived notion of a hacker was as stereotypical as it could get. When he found out someone had been in his computer, he had pictured a very fat man sitting in front of his computer in the dark, next to a box of donuts and an extra-large soda. Someone who never went out, who did not remember what sunshine even was, with huge glasses, unwashed hair and sweaty armpits.

He did not expect a woman. Not that she looked like one. Brienne Tarth was _tall_ , slightly taller than him. Her skin—which he could see quite a lot of—was pale and covered in freckles. Her big mouth was hanging open at the sight of him, and her hair was shorter than his shoulder-length golden locks. The image of a scar on her cheek made her face even more unappealing; she was basically a mess all around. Or she nearly was, with the exception of one thing: her eyes, as big as saucers at the moment, were breathtakingly beautiful.

Jaime had a hard time moving his gaze away from that pair of legs that went for miles. He forced himself to look back up at her dumbfounded expression, watching the way her hand was slowly sneaking its way to the door, making no sudden movements, as if she was scared that he would go into a rage. He did have a valid reason to do it, after all.

Then, quick as a cat, she slipped inside her apartment and would have shut the door on his face, if not for Jaime’s foot on the doorframe. With a firm push, the door opened wide and he walked inside, unceremoniously throwing his travel bag on the floor and studying the place. There was coffee boiling inside a pot, so he headed to the kitchen counter and turned it off, as casually as if it were his own place.

“How many cups of sugar?” Jaime asked nonchalantly. “One? Two? Ten?” He rummaged through her cabinets until he found a pair of clean mugs. “It’s real nice, isn’t it? To have someone invading your privacy?”

The geek just stood there, blushing furiously and frowning. The scowl made her look even uglier, if that was possible. “How did you get my address?” she asked, finally finding her voice. “I’m sure Mr. Goodwin didn’t give it to you.”

“Oh, he didn’t,” Jaime replied, pouring the coffee in the cups. “Apparently he has a lot of respect for you. You’re his biggest asset, after all, going into people’s computers and checking all their shit. Real classy.” He slammed her cup down on the kitchen table, causing it to spill down one of the sides, and gestured for her to take a seat.

Apparently she was not ashamed of standing there in her panties and an almost see-through top that allowed him a very clear view of her hardened nipples. That, or she was too shocked by his presence to do something about it. She did not sit.

He continued, “See, you have this co-worker called Ronnet. Quite an asshole, that one, which worked to my advantage. When he found out I was looking for you on account of something illegal, he was happy enough to search the personnel files and give me the info.”

“I’m going to _kill_ him,” she mumbled under her breath, as if Jaime could not hear her. She fisted her hands and her expression was nothing short of indignant.

“Oh, that’s not necessary. You can just go through his hard drive and find a way to ruin his life, right? I’m guessing that’s what you do with every guy who gives you shit. You’re probably some sort of crazy vindictive bitch.” Jaime sat on one of the chairs, blowing on his coffee and taking a sip. “So, was it fun putting my life out for display for Edmure Tully?” The bitterness dripped from his voice then. “You have no idea how much the police would love to know about your little side business.”

At that, strangely enough, the woman’s expression relaxed. The slightest hint of a smile appeared on her lips, but he might have just imagined it. “You could not involve the police. I was never in your computer.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow.

“I’m simply an assistant at Evenstar Security. My job is to transcribe documents for Mr. Goodwin.” Her eyes darted to her laptop, which was resting on a small desk. Even in the distance he could see a tag in a corner that read ‘Winterfell’. She’d make a terrible poker player.

Their eyes met. Hers remained focused and challenging, daring him to try and reach for the computer. But he had not come here to throw some kind of a fit and take her laptop, or even to turn her in. Truth be told, he was not even sure why he _had_ come. Perhaps to give her a taste of her own medicine, breaking into her apartment and giving her an earful about it. A woman. He had never imagined it would be a woman. That made it impossible to throw a punch at the guy he had made up in his head.

At last, Jaime gave a sigh and calmed down, trying to seriously ignore those _nipples_ and her legs and her general disregard for her current attire. “Look, I’m not recording you, and I didn’t come here to turn you in. You should take a shower and get _dressed_.”

The geek stared down at her chest and her cheeks flushed anew. She bit her lip and asked hesitantly, “What if you rob me?”

“Holy shit, woman, I’m not a burglar.”

“You only have a hundred and twenty dragons in your bank account.”

Jaime laughed. _Stupid meddlesome geek_. “I’m not that desperate yet. Plus, as it turns out, I have a job now, and an expense credit card.” That one she could not be aware of; it was under Tully’s name. “Whatever, have a shower, don’t have a shower, it’s all the same to me. I was trying to be courteous.”

“ _Courteous_?” the woman exclaimed. “You just stormed into my place uninvited.”

“Well, did I invite you into my laptop? Same difference.”

She said nothing. Grudgingly, she headed for her room and locked the door. Moments later, Jaime heard the shower running. His thoughts went to her big, manly, naked frame, standing there with the water falling over her. Jaime’s cock twitched at the thought of her soaping up her body. His reaction would have been a mystery to him, were it not for the fact that he hadn’t had sex in over six months—not counting his long-term affair with his right hand.

When Brienne came back soon afterwards, her wet hair and crooked teeth made her seem like a horse that had been left out in the rain for too long. She had thrown on a red t-shirt that read ONLY YOU CAN PREVENT THE ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE with the drawing of a decaying bear, and a pair of loose jeans. She remained barefoot; her feet were as big as paddles, and her chest was almost completely flat. This time she did sit with him, and began to drink her cold coffee in silence.

“You had no right,” was all Jaime told her.

“You went into Edmure’s computer yourself,” the geek snapped back. “The report was a confidential document. You only found it because you were invading someone else’s privacy.”

 _Fuck_. “Hey, he was the one who left those in a shared folder. Shared documents are meant to be _shared_. Especially after he was boasting of all that knowledge about me. Me and my stepsister,” he sneered. “How is that even relevant in my report?”

“If you were afraid of being caught, maybe you shouldn’t have been involved with your stepsister in the first place.”

Jaime turned to her so violently that she hunched on her chair and added nothing more. She was done with her coffee, so she just distracted herself by playing with the empty mug, shifting her fingers up and down the handle nervously.

“If you think you’re going to hang that over my head, you’re sorely mistaken.” Jaime stood and looked down at her. “I could easily sue Evenstar Security for that report, and I’m pretty sure they’ll reveal their source to cover their ass, so everything would fall on you. I know your name and your address, and it’s not like your big, hulking self could go unnoticed.”

The geek didn’t even flinch. “Like I said. I was never in your computer, and I’m merely an assistant. Evenstar often works with freelancers, and freelancers come and go as they please. Any of them could have written that report and left for the Free Cities, or Dorne, or Asshai.”

She stood and grabbed the cups, placing them in the sink. The silence stretched between them, tense and awkward, both of them keeping an aggressive grip on the cards they held. To his surprise, she was the first to give him enough credit to be sincere. “Whatever Edmure Tully and his uncle were looking for, it was thanks to that report that they hired you. Thanks to my recommendation.”

“What are you talking about?”

Apparently she had not meant to say so much, because she bit her plump lip once more. “They wanted to know if I thought you were guilty. I said you weren’t. I heard the tapes, I checked your sources, and I know you were set up.” Her tone grew angry as she continued, “You come here and try to make me look like the villain, but researching other people is what you do for a living as well. You tell yourself it’s for the greater good, don’t you? What about when you worked at LanCorp? Your father had you investigating the competition, their weaknesses, so he could exploit them. Many small businesses went bankrupt as a result. Was that very honorable?” Jaime opened his mouth to retort, but before he could speak, she continued, “I defended you. And I could have easily told them about your kids, too, but I didn’t. Don’t threaten me. I’m not your enemy.”

 _Holy shit_. “You’ve been fucking busy.”

Brienne crossed her arms on her chest. “I’m the best at what I do.”

“So am I. And I’m not about to thank you for the job.”

“I’m not about to thank you for walking away, either.”

Jaime grinned, and watched her posture relax slightly as a response. “Who said I’m walking away?” He paused. “Why didn’t you tell them about my children? They could have blackmailed me with that. More than they already did with Cersei, anyway.”

“I don’t hurt innocents. If they find out, it should be from their father and mother. Information filters easily, and I’d rather they didn’t hear it in the morning news, especially with all the media attention you’re getting right now.”

As far as he could see, this Brienne Tarth basically thought herself some cloaked hero behind her computer, but the mere thought was absurd. No one who illegally dug up private information for a living had any morals, or even an excuse. Jaime might have been one to exploit information before, but those days were long gone. _Millennium_ had been a new life for him, and since the magazine was born he had only used his resources to put pressure on politicians or sons of bitches who had it coming.

“Is there anything you _don’t_ know?” he asked her.

“I . . .” She glanced at her laptop. “I don’t know exactly what you’re doing for Brynden Tully.”

“Let’s see how smart you are. Care to venture a guess?”

The geek leaned back against the counter and rested her hands on it. “Brynden Tully hasn’t been out of Winterfell for a decade. Not until he came to meet you at that hotel.” _Gods, she’s nosy_. “The Red Wedding changed the course of his life, and his arrival here at King’s Landing was too close to its ten-year anniversary to be a coincidence. Tully wants you as a journalist—he was very focused on whether or not you could be trusted professionally, so he’s hiring you for research or to write something. And he offered you a deal that enticed you enough. You’re not driven by money, your career is your top priority, so whatever you’d be writing for him is big enough that you think it will wash off the stain of Aerys Targaryen.”

Listening to her made Jaime feel as if he were the one who was almost naked. This strange woman knew more about him than even his own stepsister, or at least the geek _cared_ more about knowing him and his motives. Cersei had always criticized him for leaving LanCorp; she could never understand how important journalism was for him.

The woman went on, “I . . . I would have read the Red Wedding’s records to find out. But the Seagard Police Department was still too rudimentary back then, and anything prior to 2006 is on paper. So I don’t know if there’s something Mr. Tully would still want with it. But if I had to guess . . . I’d think he’s telling you everything about the Red Wedding. He’s having you write about the most shocking slaughter of the past decade.”

Jaime’s mind raced back to Winterfell, to the mountain of boxes that was awaiting him in the spare room of the house. He thought of the police reports, the pictures, the endless police interviews and Sansa’s photo in one of the folders. If he could have this _machine_ with him, this information-generating creature to assist him, he could narrow down his search dramatically. Sansa could be anywhere, and through a laptop, so could this Brienne Tarth.

“Come with me,” he told her bluntly. “Work with me.”

She was puzzled. “On a book?”

“It’s not a book I’m working on. And I think, if you’re half as interested in uncovering secrets as I am, that you might find it worthy of your time.”

Her big mouth open and closed, like some idiotic fish. She was probably trying to come up with an excuse, but found that nothing was good enough. Like she had said, through sugarcoated words, at Evenstar she was basically a freelancer who could leave whenever she wanted. Her apartment in Flea Bottom was so humble that she must live from one paycheck to the next, and Tully would not hesitate to hire her as help. The Blackfish would do anything to find Sansa.

Jaime couldn’t help but smirk. “Unless you don’t want to break that guy’s heart.” At first he wondered if the brown-haired man who had been leaving as Jaime arrived was the geek’s boyfriend, but this was a woman who hacked into computers for a living. It was very doubtful that she had much of a social life, let alone a steady relationship.

“ _No_ ,” she told him, offended. “He’s no one. Not that it’s any of your business.” Her fingers started dancing rhythmically against the counter. _She’s considering it. Almost there_. “What is it you’re investigating?”

“Well, I’m looking for someone, you see. A girl with auburn hair, the heiress that never was. I’m looking for Sansa Stark.”


	6. Seven Minutes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: [Led Zeppelin - Kashmir](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sfR_HWMzgyc) | [Lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/ledzeppelin/kashmir.html) | Beta'ed by [YellowDelaney](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowDelaney/pseuds/YellowDelaney)

 

Chapter 6: Seven Minutes

_Normally seven minutes of another person’s company was enough to give her a headache, so she set things up to live as a recluse. She was perfectly content as long as people left her in peace. Unfortunately society was not very smart or understanding._

* * *

With Jaime Lannister everything was an issue.

The first night after his sudden appearance at her apartment, he had been calm enough. He had gone off to stay at a low-profile hotel and agreed to give Brienne time to collect her things and discuss her departure with Goodwin, as well as saying her farewells to her acquaintances. Only Pod, truly, but he did not need to know that.

Apparently, Lannister believed that twelve hours was more than enough for her to pick up and leave her life. So by the third day, he was being nothing short of insufferable: he called her twice an hour, asking if she was ready, trying to hurry her and even offering to run some of her errands to speed up the process. She firmly refused each time. As if she would ever let him have any direct contact with her personal life.

On the fourth day, the journalist decided that it would be even more irritating to sit around her place while she threw out the last of the food in her refrigerator. She finally snapped after half an hour listening to his protests about having to get to work as soon as possible.

“Why don’t you just leave already?” Brienne spat, the last strand of her patience now vanished. “I don’t see why it’s necessary for me to escort you all the way to Winterfell. Are you going to get lost, perhaps? Do you need a map?”

Lannister glared at her from his spot on the couch, his shoes firmly planted on her cushions despite her repeatedly asking him to take them off. “No. I’m not going to be fooled by you. Our deal is that I don’t go to the police and you help me with this thing, but you can easily slip away if I leave on my own. And as sick as I am of your most _tedious_ company, I need your tracking abilities to figure out Sansa’s whereabouts.”

She continued to discard food absently: first a pack of cheese, then a forgotten salad in an unopened bag (a failed attempt to eat healthier food). All of it went to the trash, Brienne’s last task before disconnecting the refrigerator and turning off the breakers.

“I still have dirt on you too,” she reminded him, opening the last can of soda and taking a sip, “so it’s safe to say that we’re at odds. You have no right to threaten me, let alone act as though you own me. If I said I would go to Winterfell, I’m going to Winterfell.” She stood up straight, feeling immediate relief in her lower back after leaning for too long in front of the fridge. She stretched her arms and sighed, tired of the heavy morning chores. Her eyes caught sight of her travel backpack, sitting on top of the counter. It was far lighter than Jaime’s. “I should also mention that if you’re planning to travel with me like I’m your hostage, you’re going to have to get rid of some of your stuff. That’s not going to fit on my motorcycle.”

Jaime huffed, believing it a joke. Brienne knew she did not seem like the kind to ride motorcycles, but considering how good-looking Lannister was, he would never understand what it meant to Brienne to get on her bike and become someone else. Realizing that she was not making a joke, a grin spread on his face; that stupid grin that seemed especially devised to irritate her.

“You’re not cool enough to pull that off, geek. But it’s quite easy to see why you’d prefer a motorcycle to actual transportation. At least that helmet hides your ugly face.”

 _Fuck you. And fuck you again, just for being right_.

When she threw on her helmet and her leather jacket, to the rest of the world Brienne became a man. Her stature and her flat chest made it easy to pass as one, and it allowed her some respite from the usual mockery she received. If anything, people were even nicer, because they thought her some knight in shining armor, or some rebel hitting the town. It was absurd on principle, but that didn’t mean she could not benefit from it. Not to mention that she did not have the financial means to buy herself a car—not even a junker.

Brienne remained silent, doing her best not to look at Jaime’s face. She couldn’t understand why his insults felt different than the ones she had grown accustomed to, especially considering the man was infamous since the Targaryen scandal. Perhaps it was the enthusiasm that he put into his cynical remarks, or the way she had caught him staring more than once at her scar or at her face. It made her feel inadequate, and allowing him to shake her in such a way brought her back to the days where her nanny, Mrs. Roelle, told her she must get used to tolerating such behavior from the opposite sex. And she should do it gracefully, to boot.

“I’m going on my motorcycle whether you’re happy about it or not, Kingslayer,” Brienne replied at last. “I’ll need a means of transportation when I’m up there. You can catch a plane and be there in a few hours. I’m taking the Kingsroad Highway.”

“It will take you at least two whole days.” Lannister frowned and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “Not to mention that your ass is going to be flat as a board by the time you get there, and you’ll be walking like a cowboy.”

“My ass?” She shook her head in disbelief. “What do you even care about my _ass_?”

“I’m going to need some kind of show of good faith from you. A way for you to prove that you’re not going to catch the next plane to Essos and leave me hanging.”

“Gods, you’re too much work,” Brienne mumbled, opening her backpack and trying to make a mental note of his ability to change the subject whenever he screwed up. She pulled out her laptop and handed it to him. “I shouldn't be enabling you, but there. I can’t very well run away without it. Now please leave me alone. I don’t see why it’s necessary for you to be here.”

He smiled triumphantly and put the computer inside his travel bag. “See, geek, now we understand each other. I’m guessing you don’t need directions, do you?” Lannister asked as he headed for the door. “Remember not to accept candy from strangers on the road.”

Once the door closed behind him, Brienne sighed heavily. If this was what the next year of her life was going to be like, she might have to start taking Valium.

* * *

The snow was falling heavily that night and Brienne’s leather jacket was covered in snowflakes. Her bones were freezing. She’d never had to buy winter clothes before, so it was with quite a sense of dread that she learned that woolen gloves and a scarf would not protect her from Winterfell’s frequent below-zero temperatures. She leaned against her motorcycle, which was parked next to Lannister’s SUV, staring at the small house and the Stark estate in turn.

Brynden Tully had welcomed her politely enough, giving her a tour of the property and expressing his gratitude for the undertaking. He must have been impressed with the results she had provided him through Evenstar Security—as opposed to other research companies—and having her join the investigation improved his chances of finding his great-niece. Tully had offered her a room at the estate, so that she would be comfortable and have some privacy, but Lannister had suggested that she take one of the bedrooms at the small house where he was living.

Brienne had lived alone since the death of her father. Even during her most thorough searches for places to rent, she had always made an effort to stay away from any roommates. It was hard for her to relate to others, to find someone who was worthy of her trust. Most of the people in her life thought her a good source of entertainment or a target for their unwelcome advances. Back in Tarth she always had her own room, and her father understood her natural solitude, so he had never pushed her to spend too much time with other children.

Whichever decision she made now, Brienne would have to live with somebody. Her search for places to rent in Winter Town had been fruitless. The town was far too small, it was mostly inhabited by locals and the inns were not equipped for long-term guests.

Brynden Tully would be respectful and appropriate, but Brienne would be so out of place in the estate that it made her feel awkward just to think about it. Lannister was insufferable, but the small house was far more informal, without any maids to tend to her needs or visitors coming and going.

She sighed as she watched the sun setting in the horizon. Her hand clutched the straps of her backpack tightly, holding on for dear life to the only piece of familiarity in the deserted cold of the north.

She walked up to the house and knocked on the door.

“I knew you couldn’t resist,” Lannister told her with a sideways smile, stepping aside to let her through. He knew she had arrived a while ago, and had probably been standing there just waiting for her to make a decision, to rub it in her face.

“You were the one who insisted,” Brienne muttered, rolling her eyes. She wiped her shoes on the welcome mat to avoid dragging the snow into the house. The place was quite small and simple, not unlike her apartment in King’s Landing, though the living room was already cramped with half-open boxes full of documents. Strangely enough, she did not feel like an intruder, and wondered if it had something to do with the fact that Jaime himself had only been living there for little more than a fortnight.

Brienne made for the furthest bedroom, which looked smaller. “The other one,” Jaime pointed out, gesturing with his head. “The big one.”

She bit her lip, swallowing her thanks, and entered the bedroom. It was more than adequate enough for the meager belongings she had brought with her. Wordlessly, she put on her earphones, chose a very noisy playlist and set out to make herself at home, even if this was by far the strangest living arrangement she had experienced.

* * *

By the time Brienne left her room, it was almost midnight, and Jaime was sitting on the couch doing something on his computer. She was not sure if she should speak to him, if she should try to come up with a topic of conversation or just let him be. The fact that she was freezing must have been evident in her expression, because as soon as he saw her, he pointed towards a thick blanket next to him.

She approached him, but the narrowness of the couch was intimidating, so she just stood there and picked up the crimson blanket, throwing it around her shoulders. It was warm; he must have been wearing it moments before.

Feeling like she was intruding, Brienne made to leave, but he called out to her, “Hey, geek, come here.”

“My name is Brienne,” she told him between gritted teeth. “Not geek, or woman, or cow. Brienne.”

“Whatever. Just come here, I want to show you something.”

Brienne reluctantly slumped down beside him and peered at his computer screen.

He laughed. “Not something on the computer. I’m sure whatever I have there you’ll see on your own, sooner or later.”

She blushed and said nothing, shrinking slightly into the blanket. “No,” she replied softly. But she could. She had not been inside his computer since he’d found her in King’s Landing, but for some reason it gave her comfort to know that she _could_ , if she wanted. Just the same way it must give him comfort to know he could go to the police, for whatever good it would do him.

Jaime handed her a binder containing some old documents. Police reports, from the look of them. Brienne took a moment to read the contents, detailed information about the Red Wedding and its victims, including some quite gruesome photographs. Though unpleasant, they did not scandalize her. Hacking had served to strengthen her stomach and raise her tolerance for brutal images, especially after having to go through Rorge’s wide collection of rape videos.

“Arya Stark?” was the first thing Brienne asked, recalling all the living members of the Stark family at the time of the murders. It was a known fact that the youngest children, Brandon and Rickon Stark, had remained in Winterfell that day, but there was never any information about Arya Stark’s whereabouts on the news or documentaries about the tragedy.

“She left before the shooting. What happened to her is unclear, but she was found dead in an alley in King’s Landing four years later.”

Brienne nodded. Unmentioned names always meant one of two things—death, or disappearance. Though the media must have been aching to exploit the story, they were forbidden from spreading information about active cases, so Arya and Sansa had remained untainted by their speculation.

“We find Sansa, then,” she told Jaime, looking at a beautiful picture of the redhead with her family in the gardens, right after the bride and groom had tied the knot. “We’re Brynden Tully’s last hope.”

“Don’t get too excited about this, geek.” He frowned. “That note they sent him might have been nothing but a hoax to mess with him. It’s common knowledge that the Red Wedding broke him. I’m sure anyone in Westeros who has something against Silver Trout Inc. or Winter Motors could be involved.”

“Like your father?” she blurted out.

“ _Yes_ , like my father.”

An uncomfortable silence settled between them, but it was soon broken by her generic ringtone. She glanced at the screen of her cell phone on the coffee table, wondering who could be calling her after midnight. The name ‘Hyle’ could be easily read. Jaime snorted at the sight.

Brienne did her best to ignore him, letting the call go to voicemail, but soon enough the idiot was calling again. She groaned while Jaime’s laughter filled the room. “Tell him you’re a bit too far away for a booty call,” she heard him say before she stormed back into her bedroom and closed the door. The movement caused the blanket to flap around her, and Lannister’s scent filled her nose. For some reason, it felt intoxicating.

“What do you want?” she asked Hunt more aggressively than she had intended, feeling her cheeks burning with a blush.

“I left—”

“You left _nothing_ in my apartment. I checked.” 

“I was just going to say that I left a note on your door because you weren’t answering. Why didn’t you call me back?”

Brienne sat on the bed, pushing away her remaining embarrassment. “I’m not home, and I won’t be, for a while. I’ll be living in Winterfell for a year. What was on the note?”

“Oh,” she heard Hyle reply on the other end, sounding strangely disappointed. “I was telling you I needed help with something. Corporate research. Are you working there?”

“Yeah.” Hunt knew about her hacking abilities, but they did not often discuss it. Not that they discussed much or even saw each other frequently, but more than once he had gotten her well-paying assignments under the table—for a price.

“Shit. Well, all right, I guess I’ll have to figure it out.”

“I know someone who can give you a hand,” she added before he could hang up. “He’s not very experienced, but he can help you out. I’ll text you his number.” Pod struggled as much as Brienne to earn money, if not more. Whereas she was an orphan since she was fifteen, Pod had always been in the system. He evoked a sense of protectiveness in her that no one else had before, perhaps because she saw a bit of her past self in him. 

“Thanks,” Hyle replied. “Are you really living all the way up there? What could possibly get you to move to the glacial north?”

“Research,” Brienne told him simply, swallowing the rest of it—the thrill that she found in uncovering secrets, the possibility of returning a young girl to her last living relatives, the need to reconstruct every bit of the Red Wedding and get the answers she so craved.

Hunt laughed. “Of course, it’s the only way to get you to feel something, in that black-and-white world of yours.” She remained silent. “Good night, Miss Tarth.” He hung up.

 _It is not the only way, though_ , came the unbidden thought. Not with the wide range of emotions she experienced in less than seven minutes with Jaime Lannister.


	7. Yours and Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: [Alice in Chains - Grind](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_v8vHnGRl4U) | [Lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/aliceinchains/grind.html) | Beta'ed by [YellowDelaney](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowDelaney/pseuds/YellowDelaney)

Chapter 7: Yours and Mine

_“We need to have a talk on the subject of what’s yours and what’s mine.”_

*** * ***

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

She was sure that if she ignored it, it would go away.

_Bang. Bang._

All Brienne saw was darkness. She felt surrounded by warmth and comfort, and felt it necessary to remain in her current state, unmoving, unthinking.

Her closed eyes felt heavy. Peaceful. Her breath slowed.

_Bang. Bang._

_Seven fucking hells_.

It took Brienne all of her strength to drag herself out of bed, clothed as though she was bound for the Land of Always Winter. She wore two pairs of socks, a thick pair of gray sweats, a long sleeved pajama shirt and a jersey on top of it. And still, as soon as her feet dangled off the bed, she felt a rush of cold come over her, so she wrapped the blanket around herself before she walked out into the living room.

 _Bang_.

 _Fuck you, Lannister_ , she wanted to say, as soon as she caught sight of him and identified the offending noise. He was hammering something to the wall, some kind of a board, but she could barely make it out through her blurred vision. Before she could open her mouth to speak, he turned to look at her.

“You’re finally up,” Jaime told her, every word drilling into her skull in her barely conscious state.

Her response was the most irritated groan she recalled producing in her entire life. Brienne’s eyes slowly made their way to the nearest window, then down to the ground, noticing the soft colors of dawn staining the hardwood floor in a triangular pattern. Jaime said something else, but to her it sounded like background noise. Then, once more, _bang_.

“Shut. Up.” Brienne felt like she deserved a prize for managing to form words. Her expression must have been intimidating enough, because for a moment he looked a little afraid of her.

“I’m working here, not playing games. Stop being so fucking lazy, we have a case to crack.”

Though she wished she could punch him or knock him unconscious, she made her way back to her unfamiliar bedroom, bashing her toe against the foot of the bed and clenching her teeth at the stab of pain. Muttering another curse as she slammed the door closed, she plopped down on top of the sheets and fell back into an almost cryogenic sleep.

* * *

When Brienne woke the second time, the screen on her phone told her it was one in the afternoon. She stretched lazily, hearing her vertebrae crack in response. The glare of the light that streamed through the window made her squint, so she made a mental note to head to town and buy a pair of decent curtains.

The temperature was more forgiving now, so she left behind her blanket—Jaime’s, really—and headed for the bathroom as gracelessly as any half-asleep person would. Jaime was standing on the same spot he had been during the early morning, but on the board he had installed there were now a dozen pictures and newspaper cutouts. Ignoring her growing urge to relieve herself, Brienne took a step closer and marveled at the structure, the highlights, the notes.

“Impressed?” Lannister asked her with a grin, leaning against the back of the old couch. “This is what happens when people actually get up to do some work.”

Brienne shrugged, scanning the titles of every article. A version of the term ‘Red Wedding’ was employed in each of them.

“It's one in the fucking afternoon, you know. If we’re going to be working together, I kind of need you awake.”

“I didn't sign up for office hours,” she replied with a glare, “I work when I work and sleep when I sleep. While you slept last night, I was busy.”

“Old habits die hard, then?” Jaime raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms on his chest, throwing her an inquiring glance. “Whose computer are you spying on now?”

“I was applying every possible security measure to the Stark network to protect our data.”

“From people like you?”

“ _Yes_.” In the space of a few seconds, she had already gathered enough information from their newest living room decoration, so she resumed her walk to the bathroom. “I don’t appreciate you being so loud while I sleep,” she told him. “I didn’t bother you when you were sleeping.”

“I work during the hours of regular citizens,” he retorted. “If you want to live like a night owl, that's your choice, and it has nothing to do with me.” He snorted in amusement. “Other than the fact that you're basically unavailable for the work I asked you to do.”

Brienne wanted to open her mouth and give him an earful about the work he was doing, but this was Jaime Lannister. He was not made to listen to reason, and in any case, she did not have to prove herself to him, or to anyone else for that matter. So all she did was bite her tongue and move forward, deciding that a shower might wash away her irritation.

It was only when she was done, dripping wet on the carpet, that she realized she had brought no towel.

* * *

“Come here, I want to see if you’ve memorized this stuff.”

Brienne was filling her mug with the last of the coffee from the pot. She looked up at him with tired eyes, still unable to understand why he was so intent on testing her research abilities even though he had been the one to hire her. She drank a sip of her coffee and leaned back against the kitchen counter. “I know it all,” she assured him, unfazed. “We need to focus on finding new information.”

Jaime squinted at her, going through the first page of his notes, where he had written down a summary of everyone’s position during the Red Wedding. “Catelyn Stark.”

“In the main hall, with Robb and Jeyne. Shot in the neck after her son and daughter-in-law were executed. Her hands were covered in Joyeuse Frey’s blood. The evidence suggests that Catelyn was trying to help her before she died, since she was closest.”

He moved on to the next page. “Arya Stark.”

“Arrived with the Starks at the wedding. She was seen storming off an hour before the shooting, after a discussion with Sansa. Sansa was supposed to be at the main hall with her brother, but she went missing not long before the doors were locked.” Brienne sighed, feeling like a fool for indulging him in his stupid game. “She was never seen after that.”

At last, Jaime dropped the files and sat back on the couch. A lock of blonde hair was resting against his cheek, and his green eyes looked brighter to Brienne than she’d seen them before. She tried to avert her gaze, but it was very difficult. Deep down she wondered what it felt like to be so beautiful.

“Riddle me this. What was the motive behind the Red Wedding? That’s not on the files, geek.”

Distracted by the way his smug expression emphasized the lines of his face, Brienne answered absently, “There was not enough evidence to lay the blame on anyone, but there were many possible motives. The Boltons were left out of an important business deal with the Starks weeks earlier, costing them millions of dragons.” She finished her coffee and headed for the sink, focusing her attention on washing the mug. “But the Freys lost far more money. Walder Frey’s daughter Roslin was engaged to Robb Stark. Their marriage would have increased the Freys’ net worth considerably and given them access to a big slice of Winter Motors stock, 34780 shares, the equivalent of 3,280,125,000 dragons, according to Winter Motors financial report number 6732098-FC-43. That was until Robb Stark got Jeyne Westerling pregnant and married her instead.”

With a startle, she glanced up at Jaime to find him staring at her with a frown, disbelieving of her words. Brienne fisted her hand at her side, berating herself for talking too much.

“How do you remember this?” he asked her, getting to his feet and approaching her with curiosity, as if she were a rare species on display at a zoo. “The report number, the exact amount?” His eyes widened in realization. _Damn_. “Do you have a photographic memory?”

Brienne pushed the mug aside, drying her hands with a towel as quickly as possible, avoiding his eyes. She began to walk past him to return to her bedroom, but was stopped by his hand on her wrist. It was warm and, though firm, his touch was gentle.

“Brienne?”

“Yes,” she muttered, pulling back her arm from his grasp. “I know what you’ll say. You already think I’m a freak.”

Jaime laughed, staring into her eyes. “But this is fantastic. Having an eidetic memory will only aid us with the investigation. We’ll get things done much more quickly.”

There it was, the moment when she stopped being a person and became a tool. She should have never believed that Jaime would be any different; after all, this was a man who had run his magazine on a very low budget. He had to scrape to turn a profit every month, so would, of course, only see the utility of things. It had always been the same; Brienne was the perfect instrument to produce results for Evenstar Security, which was probably why Mr. Goodwin cared about her at all. And when it was not about her memory or her hacking abilities, it was simply about being a woman, being a target for men’s abuse—Rorge’s, Biter’s.

“I’m not a _convenience_ ,” Brienne told him between gritted teeth. “It’s just something that happens. Forget about it.”

She stormed off, shutting her ears to whatever he had to say. His words circled around her brain, _geek, geek, geek_ ; his treatment hurtful in spite of her thick shield. _I’m no different from you_ , she thought, hurrying her pace, _I want answers, I live for the puzzle, and I want to find Sansa_.

“Brienne,” Jaime called one last time, and she stopped right before her bedroom door. “I don’t see you as a convenience. You’re smart, and I respect you, otherwise I wouldn’t have asked you here.” She could tell he was irritated, angry even. “I think that combining our efforts we can figure this thing out. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

But it already was.

* * *

Jaime’s cigarettes kept disappearing.

First it was a pack from the coffee table that only had two cigarettes left. That one he thought he might have thrown out by mistake, along with some of his useless notes. But when a second pack disappeared, this time from the kitchen table—an almost complete one, at that—he became sure that a certain huge woman was either stealing them from him to smoke herself, or she was tossing them.

It was the third pack that did for him. Jaime had to drive all the way to Winter Town every time he needed one; it was not as though he could get them easily. Whatever these odd living arrangements meant for the both of them, she had no right to tell him what to put or not put in his mouth.

When the geek arrived home from the shop, he was sitting at the table eating a stale sandwich he had found in the refrigerator. He hated having to worry about food when he was working, so he went into town once or twice a week to buy pre-packaged sandwiches. They were no good, but they were convenient.

“Geek,” he started as soon as she had taken off her coat and shaken the snow off her boots. She was carrying four bags of groceries. “Stop throwing out my fucking cigarettes. I’m onto you.”

The woman gave him the look of a deer caught in the headlights with her bright blue eyes, and just stood there in the doorway, apparently unable to form words. _Did she think I wasn’t going to notice?_ Jaime wondered if she was still mad at him; she had cursed him when he told her he didn’t want to go to the store with her, even if her intention was to buy things for the refrigerator that they (unfortunately) shared. He simply had not felt like it. It was the weekend, which they used to have some rest from work so they would be able to think straight during weekdays. That morning he had felt an immense void upon seeing the new issue of _Millennium_ released without him, so he decided to spend his day dwelling in his misery.

“I . . . ” the geek replied, biting her plump lip. “You keep smoking in the house.” She frowned slightly. “I don’t like the smell. If you could just smoke them outside—”

“You couldn’t have just told me this?” Jaime told her in irritation. He chewed the last of his sandwich, wishing he could be eating something more substantial, like the burgers they prepared at the café a block away from the _Millennium_ building. “You can’t just mess with my things. You know, you definitely have some boundary issues. My computer, my cigarettes . . . ” He couldn’t help but grin at the way she blushed. If nothing else, it was very entertaining to tease her. “Are you entirely unfamiliar with common courtesy?”

“I thought we had settled the computer thing.” She placed the bags on the table, pulling out one unhealthy item after another: Red Bull, sodas, chips, frozen chicken nuggets. Apparently she was no chef, either. “Look, Kingslayer, we both have to live here. I just don’t like the smoke, and I knew that if I told you you’d just do it twice as much to spite me.”

There was hardly anything he hated more than people always assuming the worst of him, especially if what they expected was him behaving like a teenager throwing a tantrum. Not only was he ‘a man without honor’, like the papers referred to him, he was also doing things just to irritate her? It was not his problem if the geek’s life was affected by the way he acted, and it was not his fault that she liked to sleep during the day and work during the night, or that she could not bring herself to ask things of him.

“I’m getting sick of this crap,” he snapped, standing from his chair. “You keep going on and on about me as if you knew me. You think just because you’ve dug up some dirt on me, you’ve got me all figured out?” Jaime raised his voice inadvertently. “If you had asked me to smoke outside, I would have. How the fuck was I supposed to know you didn’t like it? You won’t tell me anything. We’ve lived together a week and we’ve barely discussed the case, let alone how we’re gonna proceed from here.”

The geek gaped at him, holding a can of Coke in one hand and a cereal box in the other. “Okay,” she told him, acquiescing. “Okay. I didn’t know that I could just ask.”

Jaime was taken aback. “Haven’t you ever lived with anyone? Sharing a space can be hard. I lived with my brother when we created _Millennium_ and barely had a penny. If you don’t speak up about things, both of us are going to have a really shitty time.”

“I haven’t,” she replied, “I’ve never lived with anyone. Not for a long time, anyway.”

He felt like asking more, but knowing how withdrawn she was, he knew he would be pushing it. Instead, he let out a heavy breath and took the cereal box from her, putting it in one of the cabinets. She followed his lead and passed him one item after another. “Fine. Let’s try to find some middle ground. Tell me what you think about the case.”

“Some things appear very out of place. It feels like too much of a coincidence that Sansa left the room mere moments before the shooting. It’s as though someone knew it was going to happen and helped her.”

“We agree on that.”

Brienne looked down. “But why help only her and no one else? They could have alerted the guests. It must have been someone who was close to the Starks and wanted to protect her.”

“Or take her hostage. She would command a high value as only one of three remaining heirs to the Stark estate.” Jaime put away the last of the items, a gallon of milk, and showed Brienne a page of his notes. “What if both Roose Bolton and Walder Frey were involved? Either of them could have organized getting Sansa out and keeping as leverage. She might have left with the shooters, for all we know.”

“But why keep her hidden for so long? That would defeat the purpose of getting their hands on her inheritance.”

“That’s what I’m still working out, geek.”

“My name is Brienne.” She pursed her lips. “Call me by my name, or nothing at all.”

“You keep calling me Kingslayer. I’m just returning the favor.”

The stubborn woman considered his words, finally looking at him. She was so shy that she seldom looked into his eyes, as if she was afraid that he would discover her secrets. She knew almost everything there was to know about him, yet she remained a complete mystery to Jaime. So far he had only learned that she was a very private person—ironically enough, considering her occupation— that she had not lived with someone else for a while, and that she had absolutely no structure in her life.

Working at _Millennium_ had made it so that Jaime had a very well established schedule. He was used to waking before dawn to head to the magazine and supervise the first issues on the day of release, as well as approve the subjects of the freelancers’ articles for the next issue. During the mornings he scheduled meetings with his sources or secured travel plans where necessary. The nights were useless, no one worked during the night, and only his underground sources asked for meetings so late. He couldn’t understand how the geek could waste her whole day sleeping, and then work until the early hours of the morning.

“Let’s set a time to work. Meet me halfway,” Jaime said.

Brienne nodded. “Eleven.”

“Ten.”

“Fine.”

A compromise. The first since he had met her.

Making his way back to the kitchen table to continue his reading, he spotted his car keys on top of the bundle of paper. He turned to look at his companion, but she was already on her way back to hide in her bedroom, one of her favorite things to do.

“Did you take my car?” he asked, but she was already gone.

Jaime could have sworn he heard her laugh softly.

* * *

_Ever since dad died, I’m so out of place here. Everyone is nice enough to me, but it hasn’t been the same. I feel alone all the time, and spending time with the other girls is like routine. Their stories bore me, I’m sick of Arya’s stupidity and I hate going to school. I wish I could just turn back time, be back in Winterfell, back home._

Brienne identified so much with Sansa’s words that they might as well have been the same person. She recalled the way her heart had thumped against her chest when she realized the body she held in her arms, her father’s, was motionless after the assault. No matter how hard she tried, she could never erase those memories from her brain; they clung to her like needy children to their mothers’ skirts, never letting go. The smell of blood, so much of it, the attacker's dead body close to the doorway, the wound on her side from his knife, his blood on her hands from when she hit him with a bat on the back of the neck, afraid for her life.

Even today, the thought made her eyes water, so Brienne took a deep breath and forced it away, slinking further into the covers of her bed. She focused on Sansa instead. Her father, Eddard Stark, had been murdered while they were spending a year in King’s Landing. He had been very close to Robert Baratheon, and had offered to help him through some legal issues, being a lawyer himself. Arya and Sansa had stayed with their father during that time, because he had deemed it important for their education to experience life in a true city. Winterfell had always been lonely and very small, not unlike Tarth.

After the tragedy, the girls had remained in the capital for a month so they could finish the school year. Catelyn Stark had been caught up in Riverrun with some business related to the Tully estate after her own father’s death, so Arya and Sansa had been left with Mrs. Mordane, their caretaker since childhood.

Brienne turned the page of the diary in her hand. She had found it at the bottom of one of the boxes, marked ‘miscellaneous’. It was the only box that contained personal possessions of the girls, and as far as she observed, all they had in common with each other was that they were little use in the investigation. Though the diary was very worn out, she could tell it had been elegant and expensive back when it was new. It was dark red, covered in velvet, with decorative gold lines along its spine. Sansa had not put her name on it before writing bits and pieces about her life. _Smart girl_ , Brienne thought, _in case anyone found it_. Teenage girls could be very protective of their feelings.

A few pages ahead, she found another interesting passage.

_We’re going to a wedding at the Twins. I don’t really want to go, but we’re supposed to attend together. It’s going to be a big event, with hundreds of guests and live music and tons of food, but I couldn’t care less. I don’t feel like a part of any of it. I don’t even have a decent dress to wear, and we can’t even fly there because of Mrs. Mordane’s stupid phobia, so I’ll have to listen to Arya’s whining in the car for a whole day straight. I hope we’ll return to Winterfell afterwards. I can’t stand being in the capital anymore._

Reading the girl’s hopes saddened Brienne. Sansa was still so young to have gone through such an ordeal, and all she ever wanted was to return to her family. During the entire month after her father’s death, she must have thought of it every single day, and to come so close to reaching her dream only to be pulled into the unknown was cruel. But that was how life worked; it was the one lesson Brienne had learned. Life was never fair, and more often than not, the corrupt and abusive ended up on the top of the pile. It was how the planet kept on turning; she did not question it anymore. All she tried to do was even the score.

She kept going, page after page, until she reached the last entry. Most of the words were vague, dispersed thoughts about her father, her feelings of inadequacy or rants about Arya. But the last paragraph Sansa wrote, Brienne had to re-read thrice.

_He’s here. Gods! I can’t believe it. He’s not supposed to be here, why would they invite him? My hands are sweating and I can’t stop shaking. What if he sees me? I don’t know what to say or how to act. I’m so_

The writing was completely crooked, so the girl had not been lying about her hands shaking. Brienne created a picture of the scene in her head—Sansa in her guest bedroom, pacing around, unable to calm down and having to write her feelings to pull her ideas together. Evidently she had been interrupted before she was done, and only the next words could have clarified what she was saying. Brienne moved the diary closer to the light, trying to make out if perhaps the words had been erased, but there was no trace of it.

The first thing she thought was that she had felt that way before, with Renly. The way her heart sped up whenever she knew she would see him, how she would get so nervous that she could barely think straight. Just reading it brought her back to the time when she was only sixteen years old and the young Baratheon was her only light in the darkness. It must be what Sansa was feeling; every word described a young woman in love. But who could Sansa have a crush on? There were no references to any boys in the previous pages, but it made sense. If she had received the diary after her father’s death, she would hardly be writing thoughts about love and illusions. Perhaps she had met this suitor long before that, and he had been out of her life during that month.

Brienne glanced at her cell phone. It was 1 AM. Though it was very early for her, she turned off the lamp and settled on the bed, ready to force herself to sleep. _Middle ground_ , she thought, patting her pillow. _He should be the one to buy the groceries next time_.

* * *

Surprisingly enough, Jaime was making breakfast when Brienne woke. She was still very groggy, not used to such early hours, so she only managed to slump down on the bar chairs next to the kitchen counter. Sensing her bleariness, the journalist placed a mug full of coffee in front of her, and she drank it eagerly.

“Did you manage to discover anything interesting last night?” Jaime asked, stirring some scrambled eggs in a frying pan. “Or were you camming with strangers on the Internet?”

Brienne raised an eyebrow. “Camming?” she asked, far more hoarsely than she predicted. She cleared her throat. “I wasn’t _camming_ with anyone. Actually, I kind of did find something interesting . . . I was reading Sansa’s diary.”

“I didn’t see that,” he replied, serving the eggs on two plates and passing her one, along with a piece of toast, just as her stomach rumbled softly. He could never know how grateful she was for the gesture. Not that she was about to tell him. “Where did you find it?”

“In a box in my closet,” she pointed out, taking a large bite of her toast. “It was marked ‘miscellaneous’. I guess Mr. Tully thought it was not as important as the others and just stuck it there.”

“Mr. Tully?” He laughed. “Just call him Blackfish.”

“Didn’t they teach you to respect your elders?”

“It’s his nickname, for crying out loud.” Jaime ate his eggs quietly, mulling over her words. “Was there anything interesting in it? Such as the identity of her kidnapper, perhaps?”

“She had a crush on someone,” Brienne explained, drinking her coffee. “But she doesn’t mention his name. The last entry of her diary, while she was at the Twins, is about him arriving there. It seems like she was not expecting it. She was very nervous while writing it, and the entry is unfinished.”

“Well . . .Young girls always have crushes.”

She spread some peanut butter on her toast. The very existence of the meal in front of her told her that Jaime had gone to the shop that morning, even though she had bought groceries the previous day. Either he was getting as tired of the junk food as she was, or he had gone to buy more cigarettes and simply made use of the trip.

“What if he liked her back? What if he was the one who helped her escape?” she pushed. “We should find out who this mystery boy might be.”

“It’s not exactly something we could find in the police reports.” His gaze wandered for a moment to her mouth, making her feel slightly awkward. She was about to ask him why he was staring, when he grabbed a napkin and brushed it against the side of her top lip as casually as if he had done it a million times before. Setting the napkin aside, he looked back up at her, realizing his gesture.

 _Change the subject_ , she almost pleaded silently, wishing the moment would end. He opened and closed his mouth, then straightened up and walked over to the fridge, pretending to look for something. Brienne looked away. The warmth on her cheeks told her she was blushing furiously. She hated it. He must think she was infatuated with him or something of the sort.

“I think it’s time we get to the bottom of this,” Jaime said, finally breaking the awkwardness. “To the people who were involved.”

“What do you mean?”

“We need to go to Bear Island to see Jeor Mormont.”


	8. Innocents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: [Nine Inch Nails - Deep](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XbUe3RggLN8) | [Lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/nineinchnails/deep.html) | Beta'ed by [YellowDelaney](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowDelaney/pseuds/YellowDelaney)

Chapter 8: Innocents

_There are no innocents. There are, however, different degrees of responsibility._

* * *

“Please don’t.”

Jaime rolled his eyes at her as they drove past an abandoned farm. The cigarette was sitting on his lips, unlit. He considered for a moment, then pulled it out of his mouth and threw it out the window. “Happy?”

“You don’t need to litter.”

He mumbled a curse under his breath. Brienne looked back down to her cell phone, verifying through the GPS that they were approaching the correct location. She had insisted that they leave his car behind, since going on the large ferries would take them longer, but he would have none of it. At this point she had to admit that he was right; Bear Island was even colder than Winterfell, and for all his wrongs, Jaime had been wise when bringing his SUV. The heat was the only thing that was keeping her from freezing.

“It should be about a mile ahead,” she instructed, zooming in on her map. “Make a right at the next intersection.” But that was not what he did. A moment later, he was turning left, driving past a sign that read ‘Fish Market’. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for a place to stay,” Jaime replied. “It’s three in the afternoon. In about two hours it’s going to grow dark, and finding proper accommodation in this godsforsaken place will be nearly impossible. First we can find a room and drop off our things. Then we go see Mormont.”

It took them half an hour to reach an area that wasn’t almost completely deserted. Bear Island was an isolated place, far more than Winterfell, inhabited almost entirely by descendants of the Mormont family. Because it was so remote, the island did not often receive tourists, which meant that there was very little choice when it came to finding a place to stay. During their drive, Brienne had spotted at least five weirwoods planted close to the farms; apparently the locals still held true to the Old Gods.

After circling around the block, they found that there were no inns nearby. The last house down the road, however, had a small hand-painted wooden sign that read, ‘Room available’. _Room_ , singular, Brienne did not fail to notice, but it did not faze Jaime. He pulled over next to the house, getting out of the car with a determined expression.

“Jaime, wait—” she started, but he was already on his way inside. She clumsily stumbled after him, the cold outside striking her like slap to the face. He didn’t bother to knock, but a bell rang as soon as the door opened. A plump woman walked towards them, wearing an apron and holding an onion in one hand and a knife in the other. _Menacing, but welcoming_.

“Good afternoon,” she told them, apparently unaware that the knife was pointed in their direction. “Can I help you two?”

“You have a sign outside about a room. Is it available?” Jaime asked bluntly as he scanned the cozy living room, where there was a fire burning next to an enormous couch.

Brienne interrupted, “Jaime, I’m sure we can find . . . ” She trailed off when he opened his eyes wide at her, gesturing for her to be discreet. Was he expecting her to share a room with him willingly?

“Yes, it’s available,” the grey-haired woman replied. Upon detecting Brienne’s hesitation, she added, “It’s the only room available in the area. There’s an inn nearby, but it has no vacancies due to a group of biologists that came to study the seals at the bay. You’re married, I take it?”

“We—”

“Of course we are,” Jaime interjected, stepping closer to the woman. “We’re here because we need to interview someone from the island. His name is Jeor Mormont, do you know him?”

The woman laughed loudly. “I should know him, he’s my brother.” She pointed the knife towards the floor finally, and Brienne gave a quiet sigh of relief. “I’m Maege Mormont. You’re that Lannister fellow, aren’t you? Even here, we’ve seen you on the news.”

Jaime’s expression shifted slightly. Brienne knew the Mormont woman could not detect it, but her days with him had taught her much about his moods and how sensitive he was to the Targaryen situation. “He did nothing wrong,” she told the older woman. “It was all a misunderstanding.”

Maege Mormont’s grin grew wider. “Of course it was. You have to stand by your husband, don’t you? Curious. I didn’t know you were married, Lannister.”

“It’s a recent thing,” he explained, resting his small travel bag on the floor. “We’re newlyweds.”

Mormont raised her eyebrows, but said nothing else about it. She nodded toward a set of keys that hung beside the door. “Grab those. Your room is on the second floor. It’s very ample, though the window makes it a little cold at night. There are some furs on the closet if you get cold . . . though I suspect you won’t.” She snorted. “Dinner is served at seven. My brother’s house is twenty minutes from here, I’ll write down the address for you when you come back down.”

“Thank you very much,” Brienne replied politely, still not understanding exactly what Jaime’s plan was. She grabbed the keys and headed upstairs with him following closely behind her.

The room was as ample as their hostess said. The entire wooden house felt more like a cabin than anything else. There was a triangular window on one of the walls, which made Brienne guess this was once the attic of the house, and it was certainly colder than the living room. The big bed was covered with a thick blanket, and there was a dresser and a spacious bathroom. Brienne placed her laptop bag on the bed and looked back at Jaime with hesitant eyes. “I’m taking the bed.”

“I think that goes without saying,” he replied with a shrug, pulling a scarf out of his bag and wrapping it around his neck. “It was this, or traveling two hours to the next settlement to look for a room. Don’t complain.”

“I’m not complai—”

Jaime huffed. “I can hear your discomfort from here. You think very highly of yourself if you think I’m interested in slipping into bed with you.”

Brienne looked away, picking at one of her fingernails with enough strength for the skin to tear slightly, causing a stab of pain. She brought the finger to her mouth and licked the blood off absently.

* * *

Jeor Mormont was a man in his sixties. Though he was bald, he had a long white-haired beard, and in spite of his years, his very presence commanded respect. He had been the chief of the Night’s Watch for over thirty years, teaching young—and not-so-young—men more than one lesson. Though the Red Wedding had been formally investigated by Denys Mallister, it was common knowledge that all operations of the Night’s Watch were supervised by Mormont, known back then as the Old Bear.

Jaime and Brienne had not found him at his house, but down at a nearby creek, where it was said he fished his days away after his retirement. Despite the cold temperature, the stream was not yet frozen, though Jaime could only wonder if the old gruff man ever caught anything.

After leaving Maege Mormont’s house, Brienne had been sulking more than usual for whatever reason. He could hardly understand the geek and her moods; it was as though she was born to be the natural enemy of happiness. Even his jokes hardly ever made her laugh. The most he ever got from her was a blush, so he made a point of it to get as many of them as possible, anything to make her less uptight. It was tiring to be with someone so glum every single day.

Mormont’s expression when he spotted him was of pure annoyance. As Jaime had come to know, the scandal of his trial had managed to scurry to even the most remote of locations, so the Old Bear surely knew him. Besides, Jaime must not have been the first journalist to approach him regarding a cold case, even after leaving the Night’s Watch.

“I’m retired, you know,” the older man told them as they stood by a tree, waiting for him to finish his activity. “These damn reporters . . .”

“We just need to ask you a few questions,” Brienne said. “It’s about the Red Wedding.”

Mormont was visibly puzzled by the request, and for good reason. A Lannister investigating an event that resulted in the death of several Starks must seem very strange indeed. The giant, ugly woman by his side probably didn’t help matters.

Jaime and Mormont sat by the creek on top of a long rock. Jaime did not mind the casualness of the meeting; it was better if they stayed away from prying ears. Brienne settled on the ground instead, taking off one of her gloves and dipping her fingers into the freezing water.

“You need to start by telling me what this is about,” the Old Bear began, putting away his fishing equipment carefully. “This is confidential information, I can’t just spill my guts.”

“The Blackfish himself hired me to write a book about the Red Wedding,” Jaime explained, pulling a piece of paper out of his messenger bag and handing it to him. Brynden Tully’s signature was clearly stamped at the end, granting him the rights to discuss any details that the Blackfish himself was privy to. “This is Brienne Tarth, my assistant.” That earned him a glare from the blonde, but she silently turned her gaze back toward the stream. “We came here to get all the information that didn’t make the official police report. All the failed avenues of investigation, the things that could never be proven.”

Mormont rested his hands against his thighs, looking regretful. It seemed to Jaime that he could look into the past as though he was peeking through the pages of a book. It was easy to tell that the Red Wedding had broken him to a certain extent, just like it had done the Blackfish, but for different reasons.

“Ten years after the fact, I still remember every bit of it. Every cop has that case, that one case that you can’t put down, no matter how long it’s been. It’s all about the loose ends.” The older man drank from his canteen. “Finding Arya Stark in the state we did was a tragedy. But giving up on Sansa, that still keeps me up at night. To hear people tell it, the young girl was sweet and gracious, talented and full of promise. Every day I wonder where she is, and every day I’m more convinced that she must be dead. Why else would she stay away from her home? The Starks belong in the north.”

“Fear, perhaps,” Brienne mumbled, almost to herself. Then she turned and added, “Maybe she fears that someone will try to kill her, should she return.”

“Maybe,” Mormont nodded, “but to this day it remains a mystery. What is it that you already know, and what do you need me to tell you?”

Jaime replied, “We know everything that’s in the police reports. Where everyone was at the time of the shooting, how Arya left, the moment Sansa vanished. But we want to know who you thought was the cause of it all, who paid for the execution, who got Sansa out.”

Mormont squinted. “It was plain that the wedding was a plan concocted by the Freys and Boltons. They both had much to gain and little to lose should they achieve a clean kill—which they did. There was no trace, no evidence, but we all knew it was them, we just couldn’t take it to court.” The man looked up to the sky. It had turned completely white, and a light snowfall was beginning. Jaime watched a snowflake fall on Brienne’s nose, but she wiped it quickly with the back of her hand. “As for Sansa, there were many theories, but none of them solid. The Freys kidnapped her, was one, or the Boltons. We put surveillance on them for months, but saw nothing to indicate that they were keeping her hostage. They made no demands, never took any action. If anything, it would have benefited them to have Sansa’s body as proof of her death. That would mean that the Stark inheritance would be split in less pieces, and Roslin Frey would receive more money through her marriage to Edmure after Catelyn’s death.”

The Old Bear had a point, and if they had kept Sansa, they would surely have used her as leverage. Keeping her hidden would bear no results. Not ensuring the girl’s death was, if anything, sloppy work on their part. There was no telling how much she witnessed during the shooting. Jaime was beginning to understand in more depth why, if this girl lived, she still remained in hiding.

“In her diary,” Brienne began almost shyly, as if the old man intimidated her, “Sansa wrote about someone who arrived at the wedding, someone she wasn’t expecting. She was agitated about it. I think she had a crush on him.” Mormont nodded, and she continued, more confidently now, “Were there unexpected guests at the wedding?”

At that, the Old Bear smiled, which made the wrinkles on his face more pronounced. “There always are unexpected guests at wedding. Should you ever marry, you might want to account for it.”

“So there was someone else at the wedding, I reckon,” Jaime interjected, steering the conversation away from the insinuation.

“None other than the roses,” Mormont said, looking back up at the falling snow. “The Tyrells arrived at the last minute. Olenna had been dealing with some business in Riverrun that week, and she would have never missed an opportunity to berate a high-society family for failing to provide an invitation to such a big event.”

Jaime frowned at the revelation. It was definitely not something he had expected; both he and Brienne already knew the guest list by heart. To have the Tyrells, such an influential family, take part in the wedding, opened the door to many possibilities. “Are they the ones Sansa referred to?”

“It might have been Loras Tyrell. Olenna took him and her granddaughter Margaery to the wedding with her. Loras was an attractive young man, so I suppose he would have no trouble catching the girl’s eye.”

Brienne shook her head. “How could he know Sansa? The person to whom she refers is someone she clearly knew from before the wedding.”

“It’s not hard for wealthy families to have connections,” Mormont replied with a shrug.

Jaime knew everyone in that circle from his days at LanCorp. Robert Baratheon’s brother, Renly, was having a furtive affair with Loras Tyrell back in King’s Landing at the time. Eddard Stark had worked hand-to-hand with Robert, so it would not have been unusual for Renly to bring Loras to some event or other as a ‘friend’, and for Sansa and her sister to be present. Loras had been nothing if not charming, not unlike any other gay man trying to remain in the closet in public. Sansa was a beautiful young girl and the daughter of a wealthy man, so being seen to treat her kindly would benefit the boy in more ways than one.

“It must be him,” Jaime affirmed, “I can confirm they were in the same circle. Loras was at King’s Landing while Ned Stark and his daughters were staying there, but he left a couple of months before Stark died. I recall a meeting at LanCorp where the Tyrells mentioned they had important business in Highgarden back then; my father had me research it. That would explain why Sansa felt so nervous about seeing him. They’d been apart for a while.”

“How is this information not on the report?” Brienne asked, astonished by the new data. “This is essential for the investigation.”

He laughed, almost incapable of believing how innocent she still was, even after finding out dark secrets on an almost daily basis. “Brienne, the Tyrells would never allow that to be public. They have almost as much money as my father. It would destroy their PR if anyone knew they had been involved.”

Mormont nodded his agreement. “Not two hours had passed since the incident that they were already at the station with an army of lawyers. Olenna gave all of her declarations and an agreement was signed to leave the three out them out of the documents. In any case, the timeline was off. The Tyrells never made it to the main hall. There was a delay with the linen deliveries or something of the sort, so it took longer for the guests to settle at the reception. During that time, Olenna said she was sick of the poor treatment and left with her grandchildren.”

“But Sansa wasn’t in the main hall during the shooting,” Brienne added. “Was she seen by anyone after the Tyrells left?”

“If I recall correctly, she was last seen chatting with Margaery near one of the stairways after they left Sansa’s room. But when the Tyrells left, there was no one in the car with them.”

“What about the trunk of the car?” Jaime suggested.

“We can’t know,” Mormont finished. “This is all I can offer you. Even talking about this leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.” He stood from the rock, brushing the dust from his pants and adjusting his boots. He picked up his fishing equipment and made to leave, though not before adding, “Are you sure this is for a book?”

Jaime smirked. “What else?”

From the Old Bear’s expression, Jaime could tell the man was happier not knowing. He might feel the same way if he’d been chasing his own tail for the past decade.

* * *

After Jaime and Brienne had dinner in the dining room downstairs, the geek never came back up to the bedroom. Jaime sat on the bed, writing down some scattered thoughts about his conversation with Mormont, when he realized she had been gone for over half an hour. He headed down to the living room and found her sitting on the big couch staring into the fire, with the blanket from Winterfell draped around her shoulders and a mug of hot cocoa in her hand.

He had to admit the area was extremely cozy; it was much warmer than upstairs, and Maege Mormont had already gone to bed, so perhaps Brienne had been looking for some privacy. But considering how crabby the girl could be, he was sure she would not hesitate to tell him off if he was bothering her.

Jaime sat down on her left side, noticing a second mug sitting alone on the coffee table. He looked at Brienne with an inquisitive glance and she nodded, so he picked up the cup and felt his insides warm up as soon as he gulped down the first mouthful of chocolate. There was a chill coming from under the door as a snowstorm raged outside—one that fortunately hit once they were safely in the house.

Brienne’s blanket was huge, and it had been Jaime’s to begin with, so he pulled softly at one of the sides, assuming they could share. Apparently the move startled her, because she jumped and a notebook fell from her lap onto the floor. He realized it was Sansa’s diary; the geek had been rummaging through it again. “What are you doing?” she asked as she bent down to pick up the book and placed it on the coffee table.

“I think the blanket is big enough for the both of us, geek,” he told her, exasperated. “Let me have a piece.”

Brienne looked positively scandalized by the idea, which served to make him glow with satisfaction. Jaime closed the space between them, sitting close beside her and draping half the blanket around himself, enjoying the way her face flushed in response. His arm inadvertently brushed against hers and he noticed how warm she was.

“You can have it all,” she said quietly, but he stopped her from moving.

“Just stay, Brienne. Like I said, I—”

“You’re not interested, I _know_.”

_Is that bitterness in her voice?_

“Does it make you sad?” he teased, studying her eyes closely with a grin. “I could make an exception if you want me to. I’m sure you’re aching for someone to make you feel like a real woman. Or maybe you just miss your overnight guest and his walks of shame in the morning.”

She sighed. “I told you, he’s no one. I don’t miss him, he’s just—” She must have realized she had said too much, because she closed her big mouth and pursed her lips.

“A bed warmer?”

In spite of herself, the smallest smile crept on her lips, and it struck Jaime that he had never really seen her smile before. He laughed a little under his breath, and her smile broadened as she said a whispered, “Yes.” Although her teeth were crooked and they peeked out, her eyes had brightened and her face looked completely different. It was as though for a moment she was truly her age, just a young girl having a nice time.

“At least I’m not related to him,” Brienne quickly mumbled.

“Touché.”

Brienne shrugged. “I know you loved each other, at least. I’ve never . . .”

“Loved someone?”

She fell quiet at that, and Jaime realized that what she’d truly meant to add was ‘been loved’. He had never sat to think about the fact that this unusual girl could feel an emotion as deep as love, with her permanent introversion and surliness, but it made sense that something had happened to make her that way. Jaime had come to learn that nothing could destroy you the way love could, be it romantic or a blind respect for your father that led you to do his will for years, at the expense of your own integrity.

He took the opportunity to study her, being so close, shifting his eyes over her freckled cheeks and stopping on her blue eyes. They did not cease to amaze him. She was so evidently broken, disillusioned, but her eyes still looked so innocent, as if she was permanently waiting for the light at the end of the tunnel, as if she remained an optimist through it all. A second later, he glanced at the scar on her cheek, an ugly thing.

“What happened to your cheek?” he blurted out, unthinking.

That did not faze her, but she did consider him carefully before answering, perhaps trying to distinguish if he was trying to mock her or if it was a serious question. “A bite.”

“Dog?”

Brienne exhaled. “Human.”

Someone had done this to her? “What happened?” he asked her, shocked at the idea.

“He . . .” Her gaze drifted away again. “He tried to rape me. I stuck a knife in him. That made him angry . . . so he bit me while he still had some strength.”

Jaime ran his finger over her cheek softly, as if stroking a wounded animal, and she did not flinch from his caress. His thumb brushed the damaged skin, which, though irregular, felt smooth under his touch. A thin strand of hair fell over her eyes, and he brushed it behind her ear absently before turning to look back at the fire, wondering what prompted him to do such a thing. Brienne was much younger than him, and he had hired her to help him with the investigation, not to become his lover. Not to mention that she was the polar opposite of Cersei, manly looking and stubborn, whining all day about his smoking and his selfishness and his bad manners.

Convinced that it had simply been a one-off due to tiredness, he stood and left her to sit alone with the blanket around her. “Tomorrow we leave. I’ll make my way to Highgarden to talk to the Tyrells. Alone.” Jaime waited for a reaction from her, any reaction at all, but there was only silence. She went back to the same state he had found her in when he came downstairs, shoulders hunched and gaze lost in space. “You head back to Winterfell.”

Brienne bit her lip, as if considering protesting, and he found himself expecting it, almost wanting it, but in the end she only nodded.

That night, she never came back to the bedroom, so the back pain that resulted from his sleeping on the floor was a waste. _Stupid stubborn geek_ , Jaime thought to himself when he noticed the bed was still immaculately made in the early hours of the morning. Deep inside him, a hint of guilt flickered.


	9. Related

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: [The Doors - Riders on the Storm](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DED812HKWyM) | [Lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/doors/ridersonthestorm.html) | Beta'ed by [YellowDelaney](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowDelaney/pseuds/YellowDelaney)

Chapter 9: Related

_“Then I discovered that being related is no guarantee of love.”_

* * *

As the plane landed in the Highgarden Airport and Jaime waited to disembark, he wondered how it was possible that the geek did not protest not accompanying him, but he was thankful to get some respite from her presence. He could smoke as much as he wanted once he got off the plane, and he would get a hotel room all to himself for once. She must be glad to be rid of him as well.

It took two days for Olenna Tyrell to schedule a meeting with Jaime. His impression was that it was more a power move than anything else, since it was well known that the older woman had retired and now spent her days simply overseeing her family’s affairs.

The Tyrells’ mansion was not as big as the Lannisters’ in Casterly Rock, but the fields surrounding it were majestic. All kinds of flowers and rare botanical species bloomed around Jaime as his taxi drove up the road towards the manor, and the colors appeared to be taken out of a painting. The sun was shining brightly, and he appreciated it more than ever after spending so much time in the freezing cold.

The Tyrell matriarch met him in a terrace surrounded by gardens that overlooked the city, a huge expanse of skyscrapers and expensive constructions. After shaking her hand and exchanging a proper greeting, he sat at the table, noticing a huge spread of appetizers and drinks laid out in front of him.

“Jaime Lannister,” the older woman started with a satisfied smile. Her hair had gone completely white, and she was much smaller than Jaime remembered. Then again, he had only seen her briefly during his father’s galas years before. She wore an extravagant green dress trimmed with gold. “Not a sight I expected to see, not at all.”

Jaime smirked and replied, “Being here is rather a surprise to me, too, Mrs. Tyrell. But it just so happens that I come with important business on behalf of Brynden Tully.”

Her face lit up at that, and he wondered for a moment if she already knew of his endeavor. Just like Tywin, Olenna Tyrell was shrewd and knew it was important to keep track of high-profile individuals who meddled in any of their affairs. She would be jealously guarding the secret of her presence at the Red Wedding, so any business related to the event would surely be monitored by her informants.

The older woman was not one for keeping up appearances. “I said I’d never believe it till I saw it with my old eyes, young man, yet here you are, about to ask me if I have Sansa Stark hidden away in a tower, like a fairytale princess.” She raised an eyebrow, never dropping her smile. “As it so happens, I do not. It would be cruel of me to keep that old Blackfish looking for the girl while having her under my thumb.”

“Tell me about the Red Wedding,” Jaime pushed, pouring himself a glass of whiskey from the table. “I know the usual suspects, and I know it was all plotted and carried out by the Boltons and Freys. But I’m sure there was more to it than the police report says.”

Olenna drank from her glass of Arbor gold with an elegance that spoke of years of practice. At all times she looked every bit a queen, as though she ruled everything and knew more than she let on. “Surely you’ve read the guest list. Other than us Tyrells, anyone else could have walked into the Twins. It has many entrances, as all ancient castles do.”

“Who else did you see?”

Olenna laughed gracefully. “Oh, Mr. Lannister, where are your courtesies? Don’t you know that for an old woman like me, it’s very important for any exchanges to be fair?”

Jaime relaxed and drank some whiskey, contemplating the situation. Olenna was, in short, his father in skirts. There would be no way to obtain information from her unless he first offered something of worth. He thought of the geek, sitting back at Winterfell with her laptop resting on her thighs. Even though he’d pushed her away so unceremoniously, she had made sure to give him what he needed. Leverage.

He pulled a folder out of his briefcase and slid it toward Olenna, but she made no move to open it, choosing to sit still and stare at him instead. “Why don’t you tell me what that is, so that I won’t have to tire my worn eyes with reading?”

“It’s only photographs,” he replied casually, “of your favorite grandson having a mighty good time with a young gentleman. I must say, though for certain people it’s fairly obvious that he plays for the other team, others are blind to the fact. It would, after all, affect his status as a member of the conservative party.” Jaime knew it was Renly Baratheon in the pictures, which only made things worse, seeing as how he was married to Margaery Tyrell. But for some godsforsaken reason, the geek had asked him not to mention the fact that Jaime knew it was Renly, and in every picture his face was hidden from view.

“This is quite the ambush, then,” Olenna replied with a soft laugh. “You are every bit your father’s son. I thought you’d lost the taste for threats after you left LanCorp, but it would seem I was mistaken.”

Jaime remained silent, lest he say the wrong thing and ruin the opportunity. Westeros would never forget that he had played the role of Tywin’s pawn, or that he had been the Kingslayer, or that the court had ruled against him in the matter of Aerys Targaryen. It all kept piling up, and there was nothing Jaime could do but accept it, and bide his time until he made amends by solving the case of the Red Wedding.

But first he must get there.

“I’ll give you something that I didn’t give Mormont,” Olenna continued, finishing her wine and gesturing for a young blue-eyed gentleman to bring her more, as well as some cheese. “At the time of the interviews, it would have affected my business to tell them about it, but Petyr Baelish was there that day at my behest. I needed to settle some matters, and I could not wait any longer. Baelish had been at Harrenhal, so you see, the timing was quite suitable.”

“Littlefinger?” he asked in bewilderment. “He basically grew up with Catelyn Stark’s family. You think he had something to do with Sansa’s disappearance?”

“Oh, Kingslayer, truly? It seems like you want to have your cake and eat it, too. That will be your job to discern, not mine. All I will tell you is that Littlefinger and I arrived separately and left in the same manner. I cannot account for his whereabouts, I can only tell you he was still there when I left.” Yet she thought better of it for a moment, it seemed to Jaime, because she spoke again, “Littlefinger was always smitten with Catelyn, even after she was married, but it was a disgraceful triangle. Poor Lysa Tully was quite taken with him, and I believe she remained so until her death.”

Odd things had happened that day other than Sansa disappearing, such as Lysa Arryn jumping from a seven-story tower. Given her tumultuous relationship with Catelyn, Jaime doubted it was out of grief for her departed sister. _Could Baelish’s presence at the scene be related to the Arryn widow’s death?_ Had she committed suicide after some rejection on his part? Was it even suicide?

“I have one last question,” Jaime told Olenna, setting down his now empty glass of whiskey. “Was Sansa in the trunk of your car when you left the wedding?”

At that, the woman simply laughed and gave no other reply. Once her wine cup had been refilled, however, she regarded him with visible amusement. “Is it true what I hear about Brienne Tarth working for you?”

 _What in seven hells?_ “Yes, it is. She works _with_ me.”

“How droll,” Olenna said, sloshing the near-transparent liquid around in her glass. “The world is very small, truly.”

“You know her?” Out of all the surprising facts in the conversation so far, this was perhaps the least expected.

“Miss Tarth was a protégée of my granddaughter’s husband Renly many years ago. She had some legal issue, though I don’t recall what it was.” She shifted in her seat, seemingly trying to find a comfortable position. It was no wonder; she must be pushing at least ninety by now. “It was after Selwyn Tarth was murdered. He was wealthy in his own way, owning most of that dreary island that is Tarth.”

In less than a minute he had discovered more information about Brienne than she had told him in their whole time living together. If Renly had acted as her lawyer and defended her on some charges, that was probably why Brienne had not wanted him to divulge the name of Loras’ lover. Perhaps Renly was the one she had been in love with, someone who had showed her kindness in a time of difficulty. “What about her mother?”

“As I understand, it was just them.”

“No brothers or sisters?” he asked.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

The true question was why he kept scratching at the surface, wanting to know more about her. The geek and her life were no business of his, they had a professional relationship and he intended to keep it that way, but his questions allowed Olenna to detect a weakness. He was probably giving her the wrong idea by enquiring about her, especially considering he lived with the woman.

“It would seem you have developed quite an interest in this lady,” Tyrell pointed out, as Jaime had expected. “You would think that you’d know these things by now, being a journalist and whatnot,” she said with a laugh.

“She’s a co-worker, and that is all.”

“Is that why you live together?”

“You have become quite intrusive, Mrs. Tyrell,” he said through gritted teeth.

Olenna shrugged, popping a piece of expensive cheese into her mouth with an expression of delight. “I’m just trying to point out the obvious, Mr. Lannister. You have been staring at the screen of your phone subconsciously every five minutes, and I keep wondering why this lady did not accompany you, given that you are co-workers. I would think it’s important for her to know this information, don’t you? Are you hiding her from me, or did you have a lover’s quarrel?”

Before he even knew it, Jaime had gotten to his feet, grasping his briefcase tightly and fisting his other hand. He took a deep breath, trying to give off an impression of nonchalance and failing miserably. He had picked the wrong woman with whom to display a disadvantage, and he was more likely than not going to pay for it in some way.

“This has been a very productive afternoon, Mrs. Tyrell. Thank you for having me,” Jaime told her finally with a crooked smile. “Make sure you keep those photos handy, you don’t want them to fall into the wrong hands.”

With that, he turned and left.

* * *

Jaime’s hotel room felt cold and impersonal. It was completely white and devoid of any furniture other than a small bedside table. There was an old TV in the corner, but he found himself bored by the contents of every channel. He did not even feel like smoking—the pack he had bought at the airport was only missing one cigarette. Brienne’s prohibition to smoke in the house had led him to start dropping the habit, lest he face the freezing cold in the yard every hour of the day. Instead of feeling like bingeing on the activity now that he could do it freely, he found himself feeling apathetic towards it.

Having nothing better to do, he decided to call Brienne to update her about his new discovery.

“Hello?” she answered on the other side, her voice hoarse. Apparently, she had been sleeping at 10 PM. The only way that could happen was if she had stayed up for a whole day straight, doing gods knew what. What did she do with her time now that she had the house to herself?

“Geek,” he said before hearing an annoyed groan on the other side. He smiled and continued, “Brienne. I met with Olenna today.”

“Oh. Did she say anything important?”

“More than that. She gave us someone. Petyr Baelish.”

Not a second after mentioning his name, he could hear Brienne almost mumbling the information, identifying her subject. She could act so much like a robot, like a computer designed to solve a single task, but at the same time Jaime kept seeing bits and pieces of himself in her. Her eagerness to discover more, to uncover meticulous information, to reach new conclusions. Her hunger for things to make sense. “Known as Littlefinger, grew up with Catelyn Stark, worked as some sort of consultant for several companies, including LanCorp and Golden Rose Inc. Right now he works mostly out of King’s Landing. What about him?”

“He was at the Red Wedding.”

Brienne paused. “There was no reason for him to be there.”

“He had business with Olenna Tyrell,” he said, removing his clothes and climbing into bed in his boxers. For a moment he felt strange, talking to her while almost naked, but he ignored the feeling and continued, “She asked him to meet her there. I’m guessing it was something pretty urgent regarding her company, otherwise she would have never summoned him. It would not be the polite thing to do.”

“Okay,” the young woman said softly.

“This is important information. It could very well be related to Lysa Arryn’s death. It was common knowledge that she had been in love with Baelish since their childhood, but he only had eyes for Catelyn.”

“I understand,” she told him. “It might be that he killed Lysa Arryn, then, though I don’t know if it could have something to do with Sansa.” She was quiet for a moment, but then went on, “I’ll write it for you and put it on the board.”

That made him smile in spite of himself. She needed no boards and no reminders, every piece of the information would be stuck forever inside her brain, frozen in time. The fact that she knew she should write it down told him that she was getting used to him, to sharing her analysis with somebody else, seeing things from a different perspective.

“Jaime?”

“I’m here.”

“Is that all?”

 _Yes_ , he wanted to say. _That’s all, get to work, you lazy geek_. Instead he added, “Olenna told me something about you.” He could almost hear her chewing her lip, a habit that he found endearing as much as irritating. “I didn’t know you knew Renly. She said he helped you out of some legal thing when your father died.”

“Oh,” Brienne said. “Yes. I don’t know why she said this to you, but . . .”

“Did you love him?” Jaime asked her, playing with the edges of his sheet and staring up at the impeccable ceiling, tracing the lines of the tiles with his eyes absently. “Was that why you didn’t give me any pictures with Renly’s face?”

No reply.

“You have very bad taste in men,” he told her with a laugh. “Anyone who looks with a close eye knows that he’s gay. Nothing about you would have attracted him.”

“I thought I was manly, according to you.”

He grinned, feeling almost proud that she was growing some spine and developing enough wits to banter with him. “When you’re wearing too many clothes, of course. Not to mention that motorcycle helmet.”

“What would you know about it?”

“I _did_ see you half naked when I met you, or have you forgotten already?” In a teasing tone he added, “Or maybe you just display your legs and chest to every guest in your home.” Recalling the image had his mind wandering in the wrong direction, thinking of those long legs and how intrigued he had been by her momentary lack of reserve. Back then he had no idea how shy she truly was, which now made the scene even more enticing. The thought of her hardened nipples poking through her shirt had him growing half hard, so he made an effort to shake the image away, thinking that perhaps a cold shower was in order. “Here’s some advice: next time you fall in love, do it with someone who’s interested in women.”

“I’ll do that as soon as you fall in love with someone whose last name is not Lannister.”

Jaime chuckled. “Growing some claws, are you?”

She said nothing. He knew he should just hang up—they had already talked about the case, anyway—but he found himself wishing he could be back at Winterfell hanging pictures on the board while listening to her as she recited endless amounts of information to herself. The sound of her voice made his room feel a little more real, and less like he was currently dwelling in a cardboard box.

“What did you find out today?” Jaime asked.

“Not much,” Brienne replied quietly. “I was researching the Tyrells’ finances to see if they might have a monetary motive to be involved with the Red Wedding, but it doesn’t appear so. If they were the ones who took Sansa away, it was for her protection.”

He sensed some hesitation, so he prodded, “And?”

“I don’t know if it’s relevant at all, but . . .” Brienne paused. “I found something strange in the diary. There was a tear on the leather of the back cover. I opened it and found a piece of paper hidden inside.”

“What does it say?”

“RJ 6, GJ 3, H 7, J 2, A 2, K 23, M 4, S 1, W 2. It’s very cryptic.”

To Jaime it seemed like nothing but random characters and numbers. It would take a lot of thought to decipher the code, without a doubt, and it might lead them nowhere, but it was a new aspect of the investigation to consider. “You’re right about that.”

“The Blackfish invited me to have dinner at the manor tomorrow night to catch up,” Brienne told him. “I’ll ask him where the diary was found. It might be important.”

“Sure. I’ll meet you there.”

They both fell silent. Jaime wished he had something more to say, but soon enough Brienne spoke, “Is there anything else?”

“Not really.” He smirked. “Unless you want to tell me what you’re wearing.”

Jaime had barely finished the sentence before she hung up the phone, grumbling a curse under her breath. Even through his amusement, he could not help but wonder if Brienne ever had those kinds of thoughts about him. He had caught her glancing in his direction more than once, but it might have been more curiosity than anything else. In the course of one day, he had discovered so many new things about her: she had experienced an unrequited love, not so unlike his, and she had lost her mother as well. She had even been relatively wealthy until her father’s death. There was far more to the hacker than he had initially thought, and he found himself feeling like a thirsty man in the desert, wanting to drink more of her secrets.

* * *

Conversing with Brynden Tully was easier than Brienne had expected. The older man had been very welcoming with her during dinner, and she was entirely grateful to sit down and have a full meal of roasted chicken with any number of sides to pick from. Though the maid, Palla, had stared at her curiously when she first noticed her, she had been polite to Brienne and made sure she did not lack for refreshments.

Brienne had updated the older man on their latest discoveries. Tully had not been aware of the Tyrells’ presence at the wedding, but he thought it was of little consequence. Since they had departed before the shooting, there would have been little reason for Sansa to leave with them, especially after being reunited with her mother.

After eating her fill, she had asked him about the diary. He had informed her that it was found in an abandoned stable where the girls used to spend their time. There had been horses there once, but after they had all been sold or died, it had become a place for Arya and her little brothers to play. As time passed, Sansa and her best friend, Jeyne Poole, had taken it for themselves, using it as a place to whisper secrets and share confidences, away from the prying eyes of the other Stark children.

Since the diary had been found inside a travel bag that contained some of Sansa’s clothes, the Blackfish assumed that it had been delivered along with the rest of the Starks’ personal effects from the Twins when they were released from evidence.

Either way, the older man had no idea what the string of numbers and letters could mean. He thought, perhaps, it was a secret code Sansa and Jeyne kept, like young girls were wont to do.

As Palla appeared with the dessert, a man’s voice greeted them from the doorway. “Good evening, everyone,” Jaime said with a mocking bow. “I see dinner is already over, but may I join you for dessert?”

Brynden Tully regarded him with an annoyed glance, but he gestured for Jaime to take a seat. Brienne felt her heart speed up at the sight of him. Jaime’s clothes were disheveled and his hair was untidy, blond curls entangled around each other. He had trimmed his beard since she last saw him, so it looked much neater than before. Jaime sat beside her, unceremoniously taking the cherry from the top of her ice cream and biting down on it. She realized her mouth was open and closed it, staring down at her bowl.

“Was your trip successful?” Tully asked him after calling Palla and telling her to bring some extra dessert out. “Miss Tarth told me you paid a visit to Olenna Tyrell, but we had no chance to discuss the details.”

“It so happens that I found a new lead. Well, _we_ did,” he corrected himself, watching her with his green eyes. “Petyr Baelish was at the wedding. Did you know he’d been there?”

The Blackfish huffed. “Do you think I would keep such information from you? Of course I didn’t.” He frowned deeply. “What was he doing there?”

“Business with the Tyrells,” Jaime replied, thanking Palla for the ice cream and causing the girl to blush prettily. She looked so feminine, unlike Brienne with her ugly, red-hot blushes. “When they left, Littlefinger was still there. I hear Lysa was quite taken with him in her youth?”

“It was a bloody mess,” Tully told him, pushing his ice cream aside. “My brother Hoster treated the boy as his own, and still he became a rebel, acting out when he found out Catelyn was in love with Ned Stark. But Lysa was always trailing after Baelish. I suspect that they had clandestine encounters, but he only had eyes for Cat.”

“Whatever this is,” Jaime replied, “we’ve had two new pieces of evidence dropped on our doorstep today. We need to get to the bottom of this business with Baelish, as well as investigate the code in Sansa’s diary.”

Half an hour later, they bade the Blackfish goodnight and headed back down to the house on foot. The night was not as cold as it had been; apparently the cold front was starting to move along, giving them some respite from the relentless storms. The layer of snow they walked on was thin, and the way it glimmered under the moonlight was breathtakingly beautiful. Unlike Jaime, Brienne had never seen such heavy snow before arriving at Winterfell. Once, while he slept, she had snuck out to the yard and made some snowballs, just to know what it felt like. It had saddened her to realize she had no one to throw them at.

Biting her lip, she stopped and reached down to a mound of snow on the side of the pathway. Jaime didn’t notice and continued walking, giving her a chance to make a small snowball and throw it at his back. He dropped his bag with a start, and by the time he turned around, she was laughing. Being able to share a moment that was devoid of worries about the investigation for the first time in weeks made her feel thrilled, so her laughter intensified even when his own snowball caught her right on the shoulder. His expression was as amused as it was mystified. “I take it you’ve never had a snowball fight?” he asked, leaning down to make a new snowball. “Not too much snow in Tarth?”

She shook her head, throwing another ball that she had kept hidden behind her back. Soon they were covered in snow from head to toe, and the cold water dripped into her clothing as it dissolved. Unbidden, her hand reached for Jaime’s hair, removing a snowflake that was nestled there. She was mesmerized by the way his eyes brightened in the moonlight, giving off the air of a much younger man, and she realized she had a big smile on her face, showing her crooked teeth. She pulled back her hand and made sure to close her mouth, picking up his bag and handing it to him.

“You should smile more,” Jaime said, looking at her closely. “It makes your eyes light up.”

She was not sure what she should even say. Brienne tried to recall the last time she had received a compliment, so she could apply the same principle to the occasion, but nothing came to mind. At most, she had been commended on her work for Evenstar Security, but that was her job. It was the one thing she felt confident about.

The moment was interrupted when the night was filled with the sound of barking dogs. Farlen’s, most likely, all growling at the same time. The first thing that came to Brienne’s mind was that they had caught a wolf in the nearby woods. It would seem that Jaime shared her unspoken opinion, because he frowned and gestured for her to pick up the pace.

Once they arrived at the porch, Brienne took a look around, trying to spot Farlen to ask him what was happening, but Jaime bellowing her name made her turn toward him. “Someone was here,” he told her in a somber tone, pointing toward the door. The lock had been visibly tampered with, and there was a trail of blood that led inside. Brienne’s heart felt like it was about to leap out of her chest. She did not want to imagine what they would find in the house, but she reluctantly followed Jaime.

When he turned on the lights, the sight that greeted them nearly made her choke. There was a severed wolf head in the middle of the living room; the place was covered in the animal’s blood, and the head had been left there so recently that it still held traces of fresh snow. As Brienne swiftly glanced around the room, she saw signs that the intruder had been looking for something—a broken lamp, open drawers, shuffled boxes.

Torn between the horror of the bloody wolf head and her vulnerability at the invasion, Brienne stood in the entryway, unable to move. Jaime looked in her direction with a concerned expression, and she found that her biggest preoccupation resided in her room. In a few strides she reached her bedroom and discovered that her laptop was gone, along with Sansa’s diary.

Brienne took a deep breath, then another, walking all the way back to the living room and taking in the sight of the wolf. Without saying a word to Jaime, she strode outside and threw up her dinner on the bloodstained snow.


	10. Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: [Yeah Yeah Yeahs - Isis](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Anf-Z0sajtA) | [Lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/yeahyeahyeahs/isis.html) | Beta'ed by [YellowDelaney](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowDelaney/pseuds/YellowDelaney)

Chapter 10: Friend

_“She’s married. I’m more a friend and occasional lover.”_

* * *

“Don't you think it's a little too much?” Jaime asked the geek as she installed the last camera, standing on a stool to reach the ceiling of the living room. He had suggested that she ask Farlen for a folding ladder instead, but the stubborn woman insisted that everyone around them was now a suspect as far as she was concerned.

“It’s necessary to take these precautions,” Brienne replied with a grunt, pulling on a long black wire and rolling it to conceal its every trace. She then proceeded to adjust the roof lamp so the camera would be inside it, completely hidden from view. It was the last of at least six, though all the others were mounted outside. “If either of us had been here, it could have been far more serious. We can’t take our chances, especially if we have the means to catch the intruder on screen.”

Seeing the stool shake a little as a response to her last effort, Jaime grabbed it so she could get off safely. If he hadn’t known that she had just installed the spying device, he would have never noticed. He had to hand it to her for being good at her job; working over five years at a security company had quite a pay-off. “I’m all for this, but I find it a bit excessive. The cameras outside were more than enough.” Once Brienne walked away and began putting the tools back in the box, Jaime glanced at the blackened spot in the center of the room. Though Farlen had made an effort to wash the blood from the floor, some of it had remained obstinately wedged in the wood.

The first days after the break-in were very tense for the both of them. The threat had been very clear— _stop digging into this, or you’re getting the same treatment as the Starks_. Farlen had arrived soon after the incident, following his hounds as they traced the blood toward the house, and the Blackfish had been alerted immediately. Between the four of them they had cleaned up, and once the groundskeeper had left, Jaime and Brienne took inventory of the missing items along with Tully. Other than Brienne’s laptop and Sansa’s diary, one of the boxes had been stolen, the one that contained the copies of all police reports. Their carefully set up board full of photographs, copies and newspaper snippets had been covered with a thick layer of blood.

They had brainstormed late into the night and come to the conclusion that there was no possible suspect other than Petyr Baelish. Though he might not have executed the attack himself—it would be beneath him and his talents—it was very likely that he had secured the assistance of a local from the north to keep him informed of any breakthroughs. The problem was figuring out how Baelish knew they had started looking into him. Only Jaime and Olenna were present at Highgarden, and it would be a strange move on the older woman’s part to give Jaime the information only to betray him to Littlefinger.

Either way, they had agreed to increase the security. Though hesitant at first, Brienne had approved of Jaime acquiring a gun, just in case they faced an attack in the middle of the night. He was no expert in firearms, but he had learned the basics as soon as he started practicing journalism. The profession was high-risk, especially considering the types of businessmen and politicians he often exposed in _Millennium_.

“Have you downloaded your backup yet?” Jaime asked Brienne as she brought her new laptop out of her room to settle on the kitchen table. With their expense account, she had bought the newest model of her old MacBook. “Gods know this connection is slow. Until we have all the files, it’s going to be hard to build the board again.”

“I know,” she replied, reaching for a stack of documents in her bag. “These are the pictures I printed out yesterday. I have discarded some of the flakier theories, so here’s what we have.” She showed him a picture of Sansa the day of the wedding, her blue eyes shining and her auburn hair spread about her shoulders. Then a picture of Arya Stark, the last one ever taken while she lived. Only the back of her neck and half of her profile was visible; the security cameras at the Twins had a very low quality—it had been 2003, after all—and there was barely any lighting so late at night. But due to her haircut, hair color and absence from the event, it was easy to tell that it had been Arya. There were much smaller pictures of Roose Bolton and Walder Frey, the assumed perpetrators of the Red Wedding, with their current locations for monitoring purposes. But their documents had no highlights or notes, since they had decided to focus primarily on Sansa and drop both businessmen from the radar.

Other documents followed; a photograph of Petyr Baelish and another of Lysa Arryn. A document that proved she had an abortion when she was sixteen years old, matching the time the Blackfish had indicated that she and Baelish had spent unusual periods of time together. His financial records, including at least seven clandestine accounts in the Free Cities. The locations of most of his properties, pictures of them, current status of each.

“This is some serious research, Brienne,” Jaime told her. He was seeing most of the documents for the first time. The previous day he had driven to White Harbor to pick up the package Mr. Goodwin had sent Brienne with the security equipment, so they had not yet had time to catch up. “I’d ask how you got these, but I suspect I won’t want to know.” He smiled upon noticing the way she rolled her eyes. “It’s damned useful.”

“This computer is much faster than my old one. I’ve managed to run some programs in half the time, even with this connection.” She turned the screen towards him, showing him a folder in the process of copying, 89% done. “I recovered all my files from the cloud. We haven’t lost anything, and my contact told me he executed the self-destruct script in my hard drive without issues, so whoever took our things never got any access to the files there. All they can know is what was on the board.”

Jaime nodded. Baelish’s presence on the board gave away the fact that they knew of his involvement, but at the time they still did not have concrete evidence. The day after the break-in, Jaime and Brienne had followed the trail of the GPS device she had installed on her laptop. It had led them towards the White Knife east of Winterfell, and they had recovered the now useless machine, minus the hard drive. Knowing that there had been no contact with the most delicate files they possessed—financial information, account movements, current locations of their persons of interest—was a big relief for both of them.

Jaime took a moment to look at Brienne. They had been going in circles for the last week with the research, and her expression was nothing short of exhausted. She had dark rings under her blue eyes and it seemed to him that she was jumpier than usual. “Brienne,” he called, waking her from her intense inspection of the computer screen. “Let’s take this whole weekend off from work. I think you need to rest from that thing, and I could use a break from reading and putting theories together.”

She considered it, looked at the computer and nodded. “What do you suggest?”

“I can head to Winter Town and get us something to drink for tonight, and groceries to cook a decent meal. Maybe then you’ll relax a little.”

“But I—”

“Just for _one weekend_ ,” Jaime cut her off gruffly, heading for the door and picking up his car keys. “As soon as the download is finished, you should turn off that computer. And take a shower. You have chip crumbs on your shirt.”

At that she flushed, and he left with a grin.

* * *

The sun was high in the sky that afternoon; the snow had lessened for the past couple of days, indicating that the worst of the cold was finally at an end. Though there was a thin layer of white covering the backyard, Brienne was enjoying the weather, watching two crows scuttle about in the solitary weirwood. They cawed and one of them passed an insect to the other, its head cocking to the side. The wind picked up, and as they both took flight, a mound of snow fell from their branch onto the grass beneath.

She found herself missing Jaime’s presence, a feeling that she found both odd and uncomfortable. He could be insufferable so often, but as of late the dynamics between them had begun to shift, leaving her puzzled. The night of the break-in, he had put her safety before his, telling her to lock herself in the house while he examined the surrounding area to make sure the intruder was gone. Jaime had also constantly asked her whether or not she was okay, even though she could tell that he was more than a little stunned about the incident. In the following days he had made a point of making coffee for two throughout the day, an unusual occurrence—even though he used _her_ coffee—and his breakfasts had become routine.

But the strangest thing so far was how comfortable she felt with the idea of sharing the afternoon with him off work, instead of locking herself in her bedroom or going for a drive on her bike to clear her head.

The front door slamming shut woke her from her reverie. Slightly alarmed, she turned to find Jaime carrying at least six bags in both hands, and rushed to help him. “You didn’t have to buy the whole market,” Brienne mumbled, placing two of the bags on top of the kitchen counter. “It’s only dinner.”

“When I cook dinner, I cook it right, geek,” he replied, pulling out two bottles of wine from a bag. “You’ll find that I don’t do anything half-assed.”

She couldn’t help but smile a little, but chose to bite her tongue.

Though she offered to help with the meal preparation several times, Jaime refused. Half the time she was impressed by the care he put into tasks like cutting onions and measuring the pasta, while the rest she invested in averting her gaze. He was wearing his best shirt, a long-sleeved white one that made his green eyes seem brighter. Living with him had made it so that she noticed other small details, like the fact that he had just gotten his hair trimmed at the ends.

“Brienne?” he called, giving her a strange glance. “I asked you a question.”

She cleared her throat and looked down at the bottle of wine that she was fiddling with on the table. The description of its flavor on the label at the back suddenly seemed like the most interesting thing in the room. “Sorry. What?”

“I asked if you’re allergic to any foods. I’m using shrimp.”

“No, I’m not. I’m not allergic to anything.”

“Good.” Jaime headed to the sink to strain the shrimp after they were cooked, and placed them in a plastic bowl full of tomato sauce to marinate. He had not told her what they would be eating exactly, but pasta was her favorite meal, and she had a particular love for seafood. He would hear no protests from her.

While he was not looking, she stole one of the shrimp and tried it. By the taste it was easy to tell that they came from White Harbor; they were far better than the ones from King’s Landing. Jaime caught sight of her and pulled the bowl out of her reach, but she went after him, wanting to fill her empty stomach after waiting for so long.

“Hey, no, these are for dinner,” he told her, stepping back until he hit the wall. “We’re going to be left without anything to put on the pasta.”

Brienne was taller and stronger, so she took advantage of it and reached for the bowl. “Just one,” she assured him, tugging it towards her and biting her lip to contain her laughter, “I’m starving, come on.”

“No, wait—” With a step backwards, Jaime slipped on an old newspaper that he’d dropped on the ground to soak up a pool of water that had gathered during the morning rain. The force of the recoil when she let go resulted in the contents being spilled over him as he fell, staining his shirt and spattering on his face. He looked at her, completely expressionless, and she bit her lip.

“Are the shrimp okay?” she asked.

All he did was laugh in response, running his hand down his face to clear out some of the sauce. Brienne picked up the bowl, which had miraculously fallen with the bottom down, so the shrimp were intact. She then helped Jaime to his feet, staring at the drops of sauce on the shirt with a smile. “I told you to wear an apron.”

Before she knew what she was doing, she brushed a spatter of sauce from the skin next to his mouth, feeling a sense of déjà vu as she recalled his own gesture back when she had first arrived in Winterfell. Though he continued to smile, the expression in his eyes shifted. She looked away from him, placing the bowl on the counter and looking for a towel to wipe the floor clean. When she turned back, she caught Jaime taking off his shirt, as casually as though she were not in the room.

Brienne wanted more than anything to look away, to ask him to change in his room instead, tell him that he was being rude or indecent, but that would have been a lie. There was nothing indecent about the shape of his torso, strong and defined. He was so different from everyone she had met before, and not just because of his striking looks. All the men in her life had always wanted something from her, whereas Jaime valued her for her abilities and had treated her with respect in their time living together, no matter how much he teased her. She found herself wondering what it would be like to touch him, feel his sculpted body beneath her fingers, but those were just childish dreams. She was not made to ever be with a man like him, and he had made it clear that he did not think of her in such a way. _You think very highly of yourself if you think I’m interested in slipping into bed with you_. His words had been bullets designed to pierce her armor, and she had let them.

Recalling it left a bitter taste in her mouth and pulled her out of her daze. She realized Jaime had been staring at her all the while, as if expecting some kind of a reaction to his state of undress. She wondered if deep down he was narcissistic enough to want her attention, just so that he could remind her how repulsive she was to him. Brienne clenched her teeth, offended by the presumption.

Jaime detected her change in attitude and closed the distance between them with a defiant glance. “I need to wash this before it stains,” he told her. There was irritation in his tone as he took another step in her direction. They were almost eye-to-eye then, but she did not flinch. There was a sense of silent struggle, a tense calm lingering in the air, an all-consuming silence. Then, as though a stream of mischief had washed over him, he smirked and grasped her chin. His voice became a whisper, “I see you have lost your tendency to blush as commonly as you breathe. Could it be that you’re developing some resistance?”

She raised an eyebrow, ignoring the way her heart had sped up as soon as his crooning voice reached her ears. “There’s nothing for me to resist.”

Jaime’s smile turned into a grin, his eyes a fortress, his poise that of a predator circling, stalking, sensing her. “Not even me?”

Such closeness allowed her to smell him, the same scent that had lingered for so long in the blanket she had taken from him. Never before had she felt transfixed by anyone for simply standing in front of her, existing, having a scent and a name and an identity. Everything about Jaime made her _feel_ , whether it was rage or understanding or arousal, there was hardly ever a neutral state in his presence. He challenged her, demanded things from her that nobody else ever did, and now he was searching for something that was not his to have.

“Not even you,” Brienne replied, her tone firm. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“It is when you can barely look away.”

She huffed. “I’m looking at the ridiculous stains in your beard.” She took the shirt from his grasp, eager to get out of the absurd situation. “I’ll take care of this. You should wash up.”

From Jaime’s expression, she could tell he was ready to make a retort, but before he could think of one, the doorbell rang. He made his way to the front door, opening it without asking who it was in an effort to ignore every security contingency she had suggested. _If they come to kill us, they won’t be knocking on the door_ , he had replied when she’d first asked him to be careful, and that had been that.

Too late did Brienne realize the kind of impression it would give their visitor for Jaime to be shirtless, the kitchen a mess and his shirt on her grasp.

“Myrcella?”

* * *

Dinner was awkward, as was to be expected. They were lucky to have enough food for the three of them, given the suddenness of Myrcella’s arrival. She was a seventeen-year-old girl, as beautiful as her mother, but her gentle nature set her apart from Cersei. Even in spite of the strange scene inside the house when Jaime had opened the door, Myrcella had made no comment about it and politely introduced herself to Brienne.

“So you’re headed to the Wall?” Brienne asked, trying to make the conversation less uncomfortable. “Are you meeting some friends there?”

“A group of us came. We’re staying at an inn in Winter Town overnight, and we’ll resume the trip in the morning,” Myrcella explained, taking a gulp of her soda. “I was so curious to see the Stark estate. It’s beautiful.” The first thing they had done was give her a tour of the grounds.

“Did you come with that Martell boy?” Jaime interjected, interrogating the girl as though he was a police officer. “All of you are underage. How is it that you’re traveling alone all the way to Castle Black?”

“Trystane is eighteen, Uncle Jaime.” The girl checked a message on her cell phone, eyes lost on the device, then looked back up at him. “He has a car and everything. And we only wanted to see the top of the Wall. Everyone is supposed to do it at least once. Uncle Tyrion said . . .”

“—that he took a piss off the edge of the world?” Jaime finished with a grin. “That he did, Myr. I wasn’t there to see it, but you know, he considers it his finest accomplishment.”

Myrcella giggled and continued eating her meal. Jaime seemed to be lost in thought, the way he did when he was pondering the best way to approach an issue. Brienne wondered if he ever truly wanted to tell Myrcella that he was her father; if in this new version of his life he would consider the possibility of playing the role.

“This kid. Is he an okay guy?” Jaime asked.

Myrcella blushed prettily. “He’s smart and funny and he likes me.”

“If he tries anything with you . . .” He paused, staring straight into his daughter’s eyes. “. . . that you _don’t want_ , you kick him in the balls.”

“I kind of already had this conversation with uncle Tyrion, but yes, I will.”

“Good.”

Between the three of them they cleared the table, and Brienne agreed to do the dishes, since Jaime had been in charge of cooking. A few moments later, he excused himself to make an important phone call, leaving Myrcella alone with Brienne. The kindness of the girl glimmered in every move she made; Brienne knew it because the girl had not stared at her scar or at her unusual appearance. Even people who were generally nice to her would gape at her features upon first meeting her.

“Do you work with my father?” Myrcella asked. “Or are you his girlfriend?”

If she had been drinking anything, Brienne would have choked on it. As it were, her breath caught and she struggled to put together a response that made some kind of sense. “You know that he’s your father?”

“If _you_ know, it means that you’re his girlfriend and he trusts you.” She smiled, gracefully tucking a stray strand of golden hair behind her ear. In spite of the topic, Myrcella was unfazed. This was definitely an intelligent young woman. “I found out months ago. We studied some genetics in our biology class, and well . . . It’s no coincidence that all three of us have blond hair and green eyes. My father . . . Robert, he has another daughter. Her name is Mya. She looks just like him.”

“Jaime doesn’t know that you know,” Brienne told her softly. “Does Tommen?”

“No, he doesn’t. Have you met my brother?”

Brienne bit her lip, looking down at the dishes as she resumed rinsing them. Although she barely knew the girl, Brienne felt like she was worthy of her trust. If Myrcella could deal with her parentage situation so maturely, perhaps it was not such a long shot for her to appreciate her father’s current situation.

“Not personally. I researched Jaime before coming to work with him. His employer wanted to make sure he was the right person for the job.”

“Can I ask you something? Will you tell me the truth?” Myrcella inquired, lowering her voice. “Did he really spread lies about Aerys Targaryen? Were the charges against him true?”

Brienne smiled, imagining how Jaime would feel if he knew his daughter gave him the benefit of the doubt where others assumed his guilt. She shook her head. “I can assure you he was set up.”

“Oh.” The girl’s green eyes, as bright as her father’s, lit up slightly at the words. “That’s good to know, though . . .” She searched Brienne’s face, looking for a confidant. There was surely no one in her life that she could discuss the subject with, not her brother, whom Myrcella would try to shield from the truth, or her mother, who had kept the secret for so long. Not her friends, who might judge her for her origins. “I don’t think he can ever be my father. Not really.”

Finishing the last of the dishes, Brienne dried her hands and sat beside Myrcella, resting her elbow on the counter. “I think he’s trying to be a better person. And he cares about you, but he doesn’t know how to be a father, either. He wasn’t allowed to be.”

Myrcella laughed softly. “You’re just defending him because you have to. It’s what girlfriends do.”

“I’m not his girlfriend.”

“You’re not?” She seemed taken aback by that. She surely had a reason to be, considering Jaime’s state of undress earlier. “So you’re just . . . sleeping together?”

“ _No_ ,” Brienne mumbled. “We just work on the same project.”

“And live together.”

“Yes, work and live together . . .”

There was a hint of disbelief in Myrcella’s expression, but she seemed altogether amused by the exchange. Brienne, for her part, was probably going from every shade of pink all the way to red. “It’s okay if you’re his girlfriend. I saw how he looks at you. He likes you.” She lowered her voice. “Trystane used to look at me like that. Then one day he kissed me. Do you like him? My father, I mean?”

Brienne’s mouth opened and closed. She was having a very difficult time forming words. Myrcella continued, “I think you do. You should tell him. Then maybe you’d get together and he’d get over my mom.”

Brienne shifted in her seat and moved her elbow from the counter, cursing the gods for putting her in this position. She had never had a close girlfriend, so she had no idea what girl talk was about, and if this was it, she was eager for it to end. As soon as she moved, a piece of paper slipped down to the floor. Myrcella picked it up and stared at the contents.

`RJ 6`   
`GJ 3`   
`H 7`   
`J 2`   
`A 2`   
`K 23`   
`M 4`   
`S 1`   
`W 2`

“What is this?” she asked Brienne, who allowed the girl to inspect it. They still had not accomplished any new discoveries regarding the cryptic code.

“We don’t know yet. We found it hidden in a girl’s diary. Does it mean something to you?”

Myrcella frowned in concentration. “It’s probably nothing, it’s just the first letters. RJ and GJ. There’s this kind of horror story they tell at my school about a girl called Jeyne from a long time ago. There’s a rhyme that goes, _Grey Jeyne, Red Jeyne, missing in the rain, red her hair and grey her skin, bloody was the stain_. It’s really popular. They always tell it to scare kids at camp and stuff.”

“Do you know what it’s about?”

“The urban legend says that Jeyne decided to leave her home because she was angry at her parents, and during her escape she was killed. But all the stories are different.” Myrcella shrugged. “It’s just a tale that parents tell their kids so they won’t run away from home.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of Jaime’s angry yells coming from the backyard. Brienne gestured for Myrcella to stay where she was and headed outside. The trail in the snow told her that Jaime had been pacing while he spoke on the phone.

“You couldn’t have told me about this with _a little_ more notice? You wanted me to be unprepared so I wouldn’t have time to think about how to tell her.” Brienne spotted a frown, tense shoulders, that vein that stood out only when he was truly angry. _He’s talking to his sister_. “She fucking deserves to know!”

Taking a deep breath, Brienne approached him and placed her hand softly on his arm. Jaime’s eyes shot up to meet hers, and she remained calm and unmoving, trying to send him an unspoken message. _Don’t let Myrcella hear_. Jaime went quiet. Cersei was being so loud on the other side of the phone that Brienne could her hear screeching. She knew she should let go of him now that she had his attention, but she found herself holding on to his cold skin, and he made no move to slip away.

“Whatever. I’ll wait,” Jaime told his sister. “And fuck you, by the way.” He hung up the phone.

Brienne smiled, not wanting to push him to speak of it. “I’m done with the dishes. I can go for a walk so you can have some time alone with Myrcella.”

She pulled back her hand, but he caught it with his own. “Stay,” Jaime said firmly. His hand was warmer than his arm, though still cold, long exposed to the chilly air of the backyard. Green eyes found blue and, for a second, the moment was as frozen as the branches of the weirwood.

* * *

By the time Myrcella had left, it was almost midnight. The skies had cleared and a full moon brightened the porch of the little house. Jaime and Brienne sat at an old swing chair by the door, half expecting it to fall apart any minute from its ragged state. The night was far colder than the rest of the day; small puffs of mist came out of their mouths with every word. Jaime did not fail to notice that Brienne clutched the blanket around herself; the one she had so inconspicuously taken from him.

He popped the cork of the bottle of red wine, and handed her one of the cheap plastic wine glasses that he’d bought at Winter Town. She looked hesitant. “Come on, geek, let’s drink a bit. If nothing else, it will help us keep warm. Or are you so innocent that you’ve never had a taste of alcohol in your life?”

“I _have_ ,” she replied indignantly, holding out her glass for him to fill. “Not a lot, but . . .”

“Yeah, where?” Jaime poured the wine until it almost touched the brim, smirking in delight at the way she shook her head and pulled back the glass.

“You wouldn’t know. Flea Bottom is definitely not your scene.”

“Try me.”

“Fine,” Brienne challenged, taking a long gulp of the wine. “There’s a place called the Stinking Goose. It’s very underground, mostly visited by questionable people. Drinking water at that bar would be madness, so when I go there, I always have to order something else.”

Jaime laughed heartily at the thought of the geek sitting at a table in the establishment. It was the place where the weirdest of folks gathered, drunks mingled with drug lords, prostitutes and gothic rock bands. “What in the _world_ would you do at the Stinking Goose?”

“I . . .” She looked away. “Well, get jobs. Hacking jobs, when there’s been nothing at Evenstar for a while.”

“I have been there, you know. Interviewing sources. You’d be surprised at how much I get around.”

At that, she laughed under her breath. He could tell that the wine had warmed her up, because she was no longer shaking from the cold. She continued to drink eagerly, almost downing half the cup in a new gulp. “I think it’s more surprising how much you _don’t_ get around.”

Jaime’s eyes widened and he grinned. “Well, well . . . You’re not so meek after all, are you? Why would that be?”

“ _Well_ ,” she emphasized, as though it was obvious. Then she gestured towards him, as if the words were unnecessary to point out the fact that he was attractive. It was a very interesting turn of events; since day one she had never truly acknowledged that she found him appealing. “You should, you know . . . move on.”

“I should?”

“Yes.”

“Ah.” Brienne bit her lip, as if only then catching the implication that could be read into her words. “Why should I?” he pushed.

“Because she’s married,” Brienne told him, her voice drowning in her wine cup. Shyly, she gazed in his direction. Her beautiful eyes glimmered and he found it nothing short of charming. “And because she doesn’t return your calls. You should find someone who does.”

Jaime said nothing in reply, though he continued to stare at her. They fell into silence for minutes, but it didn’t feel awkward. It was a peaceful thing, to sit there with her and listen to the crickets in the distance.

After Brienne had finished her first cup and was halfway through the second, she asked, “What was it about her?”

“She was my other half,” he replied, barely having to think about it. “Every moment of our lives we spent together. I knew that no matter what happened, we’d get through it so long as she was there for me, and I for her.” Jaime refilled his glass, lost in the memories of a past so distant it felt like a different life. “She married Robert and still she had room in her life for me, wanted only my children and never his, until it all fell apart. I would have done anything to keep her with me, but as it turns out . . .”

“She wouldn’t do the same,” Brienne finished for him, seemingly understanding the scenario he was painting. “She couldn’t belong to you.”

“It feels like it’s been so long.”

She nodded. “Living up here is a big change. It’s like another world.”

“Does it feel different for you?” Jaime asked, steering the subject away from Cersei, knowing that in that direction there was only bitterness left to be had. “Being here. Doing something other than research fat fishes for Evenstar.”

“It’s not about the fishes. It’s about . . . being able to help. To prevent things from happening to people who can’t defend themselves.”

“Is that why you started doing this?”

Brienne searched his face, her eyes somehow clearer now. She clutched the blanket more tightly around her and pulled her legs up, hugging her knees for warmth. “I started because Daenerys Targaryen had a problem, and I could help.”

He was taken aback. “Daenerys Targaryen?”

“It was so long ago. She was having a clandestine affair with a man called Daario Naharis. To make a long story short, he took pictures of them together without her consent, and threatened to make them public.” Her voice was steady and secure, as though she could still recall every detail of the experience. “It would have been a big scandal. He was of very ill repute, and Daenerys was scared of her father’s actions if he knew. She managed to buy Daario off, but soon enough he was asking for money again. The first time I went to the Stinking Goose, I met her. She was talking to the bartender, asking if he knew anyone who could help her. I got her to tell me her story and, through some trial and error, I got rid of all the files.”  

Jaime laughed under his breath. “So you _do_ believe you’re a cloaked hero of the Internet.”

She frowned. “I don’t—I don’t believe any of that. You don’t have to be rude.”

He bowed his head. “Not being rude here, just listening. So then you went for targets who abused their power, trying to keep them from doing it.”

“Yes.”

“What about me?”

The geek bit her lip, averting her gaze and shifting in her seat. Jaime gave her time to think about her response, though he felt that she was becoming more uninhibited with the wine. She had never been as talkative before, giving him a chance to truly get to know her, her motives and the foundation of her intriguing personality.

“I thought you’d be guilty. I only wanted to confirm the libel charges, but . . . instead I found out you were telling the truth.”

“Myrcella told me she believed I was innocent before she left. I think you had a hand in that.”

“She should know about it. That you’re not a fraud.” Her words started slurring slightly. “That even if you’re awful, you have honor.”

“I’m awful? What have I done to you, my trusty research companion?”

The only thing that was more entertaining than teasing Brienne, was teasing Brienne while she was lightheaded from the wine. Her cheeks flushed at his words, and she frowned in irritation at his trickling sarcasm. “You keep calling me ‘geek’, for one. And you just—you _look_ at me.”

“I _look_ at you?” He smiled, discreetly moving closer to her on the seat. “You don’t like it when I look at you?”

She curled up, focusing her eyes on the surface of the wine she was holding. He cupped the side of her face softly, forcing her to look into his eyes. There was something about the moment that made him want to tell her things that he would never mention if they had not just finished a bottle of wine and part of another. “Maybe I’m just looking at your eyes.” Her mouth opened slightly, and the blanket slid off her shoulders. She was wearing a hoodie and a pair of jeans underneath. There was nothing seductive about her attire, nothing even feminine, yet Jaime found himself wanting to touch her side, curl his fingers around her waist. “Or at the way _you_ look at me, Brienne. Do you think I haven’t noticed?”

Something unbeknownst to Jaime overtook him. With a rush of adrenaline he ran his hand gently through her hair, caressing the skin of her scalp. It was softer than he had expected, and with a fleeting sigh, she relaxed into his touch. Jaime could see her lips inches from his; red lips tainted by the wine. His mind raced, taking him through the motions of his face approaching hers, of touching his lips to hers. The way she might be taken aback at first, she might break away and stare at him in disbelief, maybe slap him in her surprise, even. Then she would see the truth of it in his eyes, so he would move forwards and engulf her in another kiss, deeper this time; Jaime would spread her mouth with his tongue and sneak it inside, tasting the traces of the alcohol, feeling her hot breath on his upper lip, grasping her hips tightly and pulling her closer, much closer towards him, forgetting that she was younger than him, that she was a stubborn geek, that she was so tall and self-conscious, that she was not Cersei.

Brienne continued to blush, but this time her eyes sent a different message than minutes before. Jaime felt his cock straining against his jeans, and turned his hips away from her to hide it, pulling back his hand from her hair. As if waking from a dream, he wondered what had just happened, how he could have just been imagining it all, how he could almost still taste her in his mouth.

Without another word, Jaime helped Brienne to her feet, holding her arm as they walked to keep her from stumbling. She did not protest, so he was convinced that she understood it was time for the both of them to go to sleep. She let him lead her to her bed, and settled between the sheets without his help. Jaime strode back to his own room, hoping that sleep would take him quickly and that, the next morning, he would not remember that no one in his life had looked at him the way Brienne just had.


	11. Kill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: [Finger Eleven - Slow Chemical](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DMFAzW2SnnA) | [Lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/fingereleven/slowchemical.html) | Beta'ed by [YellowDelaney](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowDelaney/pseuds/YellowDelaney)

Chapter 11: Kill

_“I believe that everyone has it in them to kill another person. In desperation or hatred, or at least to defend themselves.”_

* * *

It was past noon when Brienne woke up that Sunday, head aching from the previous night's drinking. She was completely parched, so the only thing in her mind was heading to the kitchen to drink a tall glass of water.

Jaime was already up. He was sitting in the living room watching an old documentary about the Red Wedding, even though they had agreed to take the weekend off. His constantly calling her a workaholic was the pot calling the kettle black—if anything, he was even worse.

As he looked up at her with a curious glance, Brienne tried to recall what they had been discussing the previous night. She knew that at some point she had begun to feel lightheaded, though that had not stopped her from drinking. It had felt good to let her mind unwind. She trusted Jaime, so she knew it was safe for her to be with him even in an inebriated state, but she could not remember what they had talked about, other than his unconventional relationship with Cersei.

“I thought we weren't supposed to work this weekend,” Brienne told him while pouring herself a glass of water. The room was filled with the background noise coming from the video, so Jaime paused the playback.

“I was just thinking about the wolf head and Littlefinger; that we need to figure out who’s working as his emissary here in the north. Until we do, our information will be vulnerable.”

The living room had felt odd as she had walked by, and now she realized why. Their carefully organized board—which had been thoroughly cleaned after the incident—had been taken down, perhaps as a precaution in case they suffered another break-in. It made no difference to her, but it was a tool that helped Jaime keep his focus.

Catching a glance of Sansa’s code on top of the counter, Brienne recalled Myrcella’s words the previous afternoon. “Your daughter said something yesterday.” She cleared her throat to rid herself of the last of the cobwebs. “About the code. She knows a song that involves a girl called Jeyne who went missing. They refer to her in urban legends as ‘Red Jeyne, Grey Jeyne’.”

He squinted. “RJ, GJ?”

“Yes. I know it’s farfetched, but . . .”

“It’s the best we’ve got regarding that code,” Jaime replied, leaning back against the couch. “You should look into it while I dig further into Littlefinger’s posse. I also need to focus on exactly what went down between him and Sansa.”

Brienne gulped down her water in seconds and searched the cabinets until she spotted the aspirin. Downing two of the pills, she headed back to her bedroom and snuck into the bed, refusing to follow Jaime's example of transgressing their weekend plan.

As her eyes began to feel heavy, there was a knock on the door. She groaned her reply, and Jaime poked his head inside the room. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” she mumbled, covering her head with a pillow.

“Come on, it’s already noon. Don’t you feel like eating out?”

For a second Brienne wondered if she was having a vivid dream, or if this was truly Jaime Lannister asking her to join him for lunch. Outside. Where people could _see_ them and very likely misinterpret their relationship—just like Myrcella had—not to mention that he was asking for her company, in spite of the fact that they already spent virtually every waking hour together. What _had_ they been talking about last night?

By the time she lifted the pillow and turned towards the door, he had already left, and she couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret.

* * *

The sound of Brienne’s motorcycle engine filled Jaime’s ears, stopping him from his current task of splitting wood outside the house. It was an unnecessary effort, seeing as how they did not even have a fireplace at the house, but it served as a useful outlet for the irritation that had been building up inside him during the past week.

Ever since his invitation to lunch, Brienne had barely left her room. Given that they were focused on different threads of the research, there was nothing that would force them to speak to each other. It was unnerving to have interacted with her like a normal person, only to screw it up with a night of drinking where nothing had even happened. It was not as if he _wanted_ anything to happen with her.

“Hey,” Brienne greeted, taking off her helmet and combing her messy hair with her fingers. “I brought some sandwiches from the diner. I’ll leave yours on the counter.”

Jaime mumbled his acknowledgement and placed a new piece of wood on top of the chopping block, then proceeded to plant his feet firmly on the ground, setting an angle with the axe. The geek stood there, unmoving. Jaime lowered the axe and the wood was split in two pieces with a clatter. Then he turned back to look at her. “What?”

“Why are you splitting wood?”

“It gives me a great deal of pleasure.”

She frowned slightly. “Fine. Look, I need to talk to you about the Jeyne thing, and you’ve been acting so weird that—”

He stood straight. “I haven’t been acting weird. I’m perfectly fine, and I’m also all ears for this Jeyne business.” Jaime buried the axe firmly in the block and crossed his arms, fixing his gaze upon hers and raising an eyebrow.

“Fine,” Brienne replied. “It took me the better part of the week to sort through all disappearances from 1997 to 2003 that could have been discovered by Sansa so she’d written them down. I thought, since Myrcella knew the story, they must have happened in King’s Landing. That was a waste of time . . .”

She pulled a small envelope out of her leather jacket’s internal pocket and handed it to him. It contained two photographs of women and two copies of police reports. The name ‘Jeyne’ was in both of them. One of the women was a beautiful green-eyed redhead with freckles, the other had dark brown hair and a miserable expression.

The geek continued, “I got these at Winter Town, in a small satellite office of the Night’s Watch. They keep records of people who disappeared in the north. The brunette is Jeyne Snow, she used to work at the post office in White Harbor. They said she was a very private girl. She went missing in 1998 on her way home one night.” She pointed towards the other picture. “That’s Jeyne Graceford. Her family was from the Reach. King’s Landing was her city of residence, but she was staying in Karhold at the time of her disappearance in 2001. There was a big party hosted by the Karstarks, some society event. They last saw her at the yard, with more than a few drinks in her.”

“Red Jeyne, Grey Jeyne,” Jaime wondered. “There were two of them, not just one. Were they ever found?”

“Grey Jeyne wasn’t, but Red Jeyne’s body was recovered around three months after the abduction. A fisherman spotted her on the shore of Long Lake.”

There was an additional picture beneath the other two, Jaime noticed. It was an image of the woman’s corpse, swollen and rotting, completely dissimilar to the beautiful, lively girl in the first photograph. There were strangulation marks around her neck and she had a tattoo that had been darkened by the bruises; it was shaped like a mockingbird.

“Shit,” he whispered under his breath, recalling one of the women he had met back when he wrote his article about abuse in Harrenhal’s prison. “This tattoo, Brienne. It identifies the women who work at a brothel in King’s Landing.”

“She was a prostitute?”

“Not just _a_ prostitute. One of Littlefinger’s.”

“He owns the brothel?”

Jaime nodded. “That could implicate Littlefinger in Red Jeyne’s death, though Grey Jeyne doesn’t seem to have any tattoos. I’m guessing that all of the other initials on the list are missing women. What about the numbers?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“If this was in Sansa’s diary, it means that she could have figured out Baelish’s involvement in the disappearances, putting her life at risk. They were both simultaneously in King’s Landing before Ned Stark died, there’s a big chance they met.” He studied the police report meticulously, but there were no additional details of interest. Jaime walked back inside with Brienne following suit. He picked up a drawing from the kitchen table; it was a sketch of the main areas of the Twins, indicating where each of the guests was during the shooting. Sansa’s circle, colored in red, was at the bottom of the large stairway, where Olenna Tyrell had last seen her. Lysa Arryn had been upstairs, in her guest bedroom—the one from which she had jumped or been thrown.

“I studied the timeline these last few days,” he said. “Littlefinger is unaccounted for at the time of the shooting. He could have been anywhere. Lysa Arryn was at the tower. It would be possible for Sansa to have been rushed to Lysa’s room when the shots were first heard, or her aunt might have dragged her there for protection.”

Brienne opened her mouth to say something, but hesitated. Everything about her seemed irritating to Jaime at the moment, so he rolled his eyes and gestured for her to speak up.

“Have you considered that maybe . . . it was Sansa?” she offered.

He was puzzled by the suggestion. “What was?”

“That it was Sansa who pushed her aunt. You said Sansa looked a lot like Catelyn Stark . . . She certainly looks like it from her pictures. You also said there was a love triangle . . .”

“What are you getting at?”

“Perhaps Lysa attacked Sansa, seeing something of her mother in her. And Sansa could have defended herself . . .”

Jaime snorted. “That’s absurd. Sansa was just a girl.”

Brienne’s face twisted in anger. Her face flushed and she gritted her teeth. “You think people are incapable of killing just because of their age?”

“Sansa was a sweet girl, Brienne. It was far more likely that Baelish was in the room and there was a struggle.” Her attitude was starting to worry him; in all his time knowing Brienne, he had never seen her so fired up, not even with all of his teasing. “Why are you so upset? What would you even know about it?”

“I went through it myself,” she snapped. “You never know what you’re capable of doing until you’re put in a situation where you have to protect someone, or yourself. You’re always so quick to judge.”

“So you’re telling me you’ve killed someone?” _What is she saying?_ Jaime’s thoughts raced. At his words, she stilled in her spot, as if she were already regretting her inadvertent confession. “You have?” he pressed.

She made to leave, but he grabbed her arm to stop her, sick and tired of her avoidance. “Are you going to run and hide in your room, like always? That’s your solution for everything.”

“At least I’m not going to split useless wood like an idiot!” the geek replied. “Very manly, Jaime.”

“Manly? You think I did it because it’s manly? I did it because I’m sick and tired of this dance.”

“What are you even talking about?”

“This game you like to play, where you pretend that there’s nothing going on.” Jaime let go of her arm and watched her eyes, bright with anger. “Where you open yourself up and as soon as I approach, you slip away again.” She looked away, proving his point. “I just can’t believe how fucking interesting you think you are to avoid me like this.”

“Is this about not going to lunch the other day?” she asked.

“ _Lunch_?” he huffed. “You’re astounding.”

There was only silence after that. If Brienne was incapable of sensing the tension between them, or if she simply refused to acknowledge it, he was not about to insist. They had come to Winterfell to work, and that was what they should limit themselves to, instead of sharing wine and glances and touches that meant everything and nothing. Her lack of a response exasperated him; Jaime could not truly know whether her behavior was her way of expressing that she had no interest in him, or if she just had such a damned hard time believing that he would care.

“Whatever, Brienne,” Jaime told her finally, grabbing his coat from beside the front door. “We’ll only discuss work from now on. Though I would’ve appreciated it if you’d told me at some point that you’d _killed_ someone. It would have been so polite of you.”

“Fuck you,” he heard her whisper before slamming the door on his way out.

* * *

Every hour that had passed since Brienne’s confrontation with Jaime felt heavier than an anvil. The moments stretched and stretched, and by the time he came back to the house, it was well past midnight. She had been snuggling in her bed, trying to push away the memories of Tarth and the embarrassment of having shared such a morose confession with him.

Jaime’s words lingered in her mind—words that implied that he was thinking of her in the same way that she thought about him, but Brienne was not about to believe it. She had been mocked too many times; too many of her romantic illusions had been crushed throughout her life. All she had to do was focus on her mission, to turn over every rock until it bore them answers.

The following morning she rose with the sun, deciding that it was necessary for them to give each other space for at least a few hours. Jaime had left her alone the previous day, so Brienne figured she would return the favor. Riding her bike much faster than she normally would, she headed to Winter Town and rented a room at an inn where she could sleep for a while, then hopefully order in a decent lunch.

During the ride back she noticed how much the weather had improved in the past week. There were no longer any traces of the relentless snow that surrounded Winterfell when she had arrived, and the cold had diminished until it remained at a respectable above zero temperature. It was strange to see how the branches of the trees were now devoid of their thick white layers on top, the green and red leaves now peeking through.

Upon her arrival, Brienne found a pair of running shoes at the entrance, placed on the side of the door so as not to drag the mud inside. She had never seen Jaime wear them before, but then again, he woke very early. Perhaps he had a habit of going for a jog while she was still asleep.

His bedroom door was closed, so Brienne walked past it as quietly as she could and dropped off her things, heading to the bathroom for a shower. Inside she felt the heavy steam that gathered during a hot shower. Strangely enough, it did not feel unpleasant, and the smell of Jaime’s deodorant was lingering in the air, fresh and masculine. Once fully undressed and lost in thought, she turned on the showerhead, watching the warm water pour down.

When she turned around to pick up her towel and place it on the rack, she found herself face to face with Jaime.

A very naked Jaime.

Brienne’s heart skipped a beat, but she could neither move nor think of anything to say. His hair was soaked, and he was wearing a pair of earphones, which explained how he had not heard her come into the house. Setting aside the question of why he wandered around naked when she was gone, she swallowed heavily and looked into his green eyes. He was turned towards the mirror cabinet where he kept his toothbrush—he might have simply grabbed it and left, had it not been for her standing right in the middle of the room. Naked.

She was sure her big teeth were peeking from her half open mouth and tried to remember how ugly she was, how masculine her body looked. Heat traveled down her spine like blood rushing from an open wound. When Brienne lowered her eyes to avoid his curious gaze, she found herself staring at his cock. Her eyes remained there far too long, watching it harden and twitch as Jaime’s fingertips brushed a loose strand of hair that was sticking to her mouth, his thumb sweeping over her lower lip in a lusciously slow manner.

Brienne exhaled, realizing that she’d been holding her breath, and a moment later he was leaning forwards. She closed her eyes in embarrassment and wished the ground would split open and swallow her whole, rather than face the feeling of inadequacy that would bloom in her if Jaime kissed her. Her heart beat frantically, pumping her blood in a fury, but the kiss never came. She felt Jaime's warm breath on her ruined cheek and the slightest tickle on her skin told her he had brushed his nose against it. When she opened her eyes once more, she saw that he was holding his toothbrush, and the expression in his eyes was something she had never seen in a man—at least not directed at her.

“Sorry,” Jaime mumbled, grabbing the first towel he found and draping it around his waist. Brienne covered her breasts with her hands as a response, unsure of whether it was more ridiculous to hide the little buds or to have Jaime watch them. To have him watch her.

Before she could drop her hands, he left, closing the door behind him. She felt the heat on her cheeks and moistness between her thighs, her body rejoicing with the anticipation of something that would never come to happen. With a mixture of shame and arousal, her fingertips came to rest between her folds, and almost of their own accord they brushed the familiar nub as she wondered if, in his own room, Jaime was doing the same.

Much later she realized he had taken her towel.

* * *

“Why a stag?”

Brienne stopped typing commands into her computer and looked up at Jaime, fully dressed now. He had thrown on a pair of jeans and a sweater, since they had decided to lower the heat inside the house. “What?” she asked, uncomprehending.

He grinned in such a charming way that it made her forget to feel mortified about their awkward moment and angry about their argument. “Your tattoo.”

Blood rushed to her cheeks. The last thing she imagined Jaime seeing in the bathroom was the tattoo of a stag that she had on her left shoulder blade, but it made sense that he would notice the contrast of the black illustration against her pale skin.

“Is it because of Renly?” Jaime pushed, sitting beside her and leaning his elbows against the table. “Is it because of your oh-so-deep crush on him?”

“No,” she replied with a frown. Though his expression remained amused, his eyes told her a different story, told her he was truly intrigued. “The last thing I did with my father while he lived was hunting a stag in the woods. He thought I needed to learn about life and death.”

“Did you?”

“I did.” Brienne paused. “The man I killed . . . He broke into our house and assaulted my father. He was there when I came back from school. My father was still alive, and I tried to help. I had to defend him, and myself . . .”

“But you were still judged for it,” Jaime finished for her. He placed his hand gently under her shirt, on top of the long scar that ran along her side. It felt easy and comfortable, so she did not move or push him away. He traced his fingers down the blemished skin. “Did he leave you this?”

“Yes.”

“You were right to do it.”

A smile crept on her lips, and she realized she would have never expected him to say otherwise. There had been anger between them, and distance, a cliff large enough to keep them in different sides of the rocky terrain upon which their relationship stood. But now, against all odds, Brienne understood that Jaime was the first person in her life that could see through her.

“Is it about Renly too?” he continued, his fingers still touching her.

“Yes,” she whispered, slightly embarrassed. “He was the only one who cared when I was prosecuted for murder. The only one who offered help, even though he had nothing to gain from it.”

“Did you think you loved him?”

“I _did_ love him.”

He laughed, pulling back his hand and staring into her eyes fiercely. “You can be so naïve, Brienne. It’s time you learned what real feelings are.”

She remained silent, swallowing all of her retorts. She wished she could tell him off, but it was shameful how right he was about it. Renly had been platonic, just an ideal, a dream that led nowhere, a desert where she stood alone and insignificant. Hyle was only sex, just something physical, empty on the inside. But if Brienne had learned anything, it was never to hope for love. She was not made to be loved or cherished like beautiful women; no one would whisper soft words to her like men did to graceful girls. She had long accepted that.

Slowly enough not to offend him, she withdrew from his grasp and focused back on her laptop in an attempt to move on from the subject.

Her mind wandered back to the stag. The animal came to life in her thoughts, a graceful creature lifting its head from the ground, ever suspicious of the noises around it. She looked through the shooting-eye during the hunt with her father, recalled the way the animal had looked, vulnerable and exposed through the blurred lens before she pulled the trigger.

Then the stag grew wings, a beak and a tail, and became a bird. With a melodious call, it took flight, leaving behind a trail of red leaves that rose in its wake.

“ _Jaime_ ,” she said, as if waking violently from a dream, “Jaime, the tattoo.”

“We were just talking about it.” He raised an eyebrow, studying her as though she’d grown an extra head, but she paid no mind, quickly going through the pictures of the investigation in her computer. She opened the last image in the ‘A. Stark 2008’ folder, a photograph of Arya’s dead body in the alleyway, with a pool of blood beneath it and a pair of lifeless eyes staring into space.

And on her neck, a mockingbird tattoo.

“I’ll be damned,” Jaime replied, coming closer to inspect the image. During their first examination, it had seemed like nothing but a birthmark or a smudge, or perhaps even some dirt. But with some zooming and sharpening, and knowing what to look for, it was easy to see. “You’re fucking brilliant, geek.”

“Baelish had Arya in King’s Landing,” she said, making the connection as she trailed through all of their evidence. “The creep had her working for him in his brothel.” The motives for her death could be plenty, from a problem with a client to issues with her famous surname. “Maybe Baelish found Arya through Sansa. Sansa definitely would have helped if she thought he would protect them. This might prove that he did take Sansa at the Red Wedding.”

“Was there an ‘A’ in the code from Sansa’s diary?”

“There’s an ‘A’ with a ‘2’ next to it. There’s also an ‘S’ with a ‘1’.”

“It looks like we opened a bigger can of worms than we predicted,” he said.

Both of them sunk into their own thoughts and fell into a contemplative silence. After a few minutes, Jaime walked across to the kitchen counter and picked up a stack of envelopes that had arrived the previous day in the mail. Brienne had seen them a couple of times, but there was no one who would write to her, so she had ignored it. Jaime frowned as he opened a red envelope and pulled out a letter. She approached him to see what he was reading—it was a brochure.

**OPEN SEASON!**

_We are pleased to announce the beginning of the hunting season for big game in the Wolfswood. Be careful on the roads, and if you’re a hiker, make sure you wear bright clothing as a precaution. In case of emergency, call 0-500-WFSOS._

Most of it seemed normal enough, but at the bottom, in permanent marker, someone had scribbled: WHOEVER GETS THE MOST WOLF HEADS WINS.

“We must be getting close,” Jaime said, throwing the brochure in the trash. “Otherwise they wouldn’t bother with these threats.”

Brienne could not be as unfazed as he appeared to be. Living in a house so far from the town, it was hard for them to get assistance should anything happen. Half of her felt like they were moving forward, unmasking the person responsible for Sansa’s disappearance and possibly several women’s deaths, but the other half felt terrified of what they had gotten themselves into.   

She decided she would make sure all of their security cameras were fully functional, and started thinking it would not be a bad idea to set up a motion detection alarm. Jaime’s decision to acquire a gun, which had made her very uncomfortable before she had grudgingly agreed, was looking wiser by the minute.

* * *

This was, by far, Jaime’s most restless night since his arrival at Winterfell. He tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable position and temperature. Wearing a pair of socks made him too warm, taking them off felt too cold. In the end he chose to keep them off, moving the sheet and his coverlet almost all the way up to his neck, but he was far too agitated from the events of the day to relax.

He should be thinking about the hunting threat, or about the revelation that Arya had been working in one of Baelish’s brothels—or posing as if she were—but instead, his mind was filled with images of the geek. Jaime wondered if she felt the same, if she was asleep by now or staring at the ceiling just like he was. He felt as though he were still in the bathroom, unable to react and leave as soon as he found her inside. He had not heard her come into the house, and it was not his damned fault that she had inadvertently left the door unlocked.

Jaime sat up and reached for his open laptop beside him. He rarely used it as of late, because Brienne took care of everything they needed to research online. Before he could think better of it, he created a new text file on his desktop, much like he had done months before—‘geek.txt’—and typed.

`Are you there?`

He half expected her to ignore his message, but a moment later, a reply appeared.

`_No._`

Jaime couldn’t help but laugh.

`I thought you were done with your monitoring. What are you hoping to find tonight?`

`_Nothing._`

`If there’s anything more you want to know about me, you can just ask, like a normal person. Or are you afraid of my door?`

`_No._`

`Are you afraid of me?`

Silence. Jaime shifted and took a deep breath, feeling the familiar stirrings of frustration. It was clear that Brienne wanted him, she wanted to make an approach, but she most certainly did not know how. It was time for him to set aside the modesties and grab the bull by the horns.

`Maybe you’re just afraid of what you saw today. Stirred up too many feelings in your robotic self.`

`_I have no feelings towards it, and I’m not a robot._`

_Stupid stubborn geek_. It was true that she was no robot, no matter how much he had liked thinking about her that way at first. Her reactions betrayed her, the way her skin had turned to gooseflesh under his touch when he ran his fingers over her scar, how her breathing had caught in her throat when he stumbled upon her, naked in the bathroom.

Jaime had wanted to get it done then, to throw away the ridiculous pretentions and pull her to him, to dig his fingers into her flesh and whisper what he would like to do to her. Get her to react, to melt in his arms, force her to drop that heavy armor and show her how to truly feel like a woman. The thought of it had him hard in moments, but he made an effort to ignore the bulge in his boxers and continued typing.

`I think you do have some feelings. Or were your nipples lying? It was not particularly cold in the bathroom.`

`_I don’t think you’re in much of a position to judge._`

`So you WERE looking. Did you like it? Is it big enough for you?`

`_Fuck you._`

`Oh, you’d never fuck me. You’re too good, aren’t you?`

The file remained inactive for so long that Jaime wondered if she had given up on her laptop, grown tired of the conversation or simply gone to sleep. But the night was quiet, the walls thin, and he could hear her shifting in her noisy bed. Sitting, perhaps, or standing.

A new line appeared in the file.

`_What do you even care? You made your position very clear._`

`Maybe I think things have changed.`

`_?_`

_By the Seven, does this infuriating woman need everything spelled out?_

`It’s about time you face the fact that I make you more than a little wet, geek. That you look at me like you want a visit from my cock.`

`_No._`

`No? So you didn’t touch yourself after I left?`

`_No, I did NOT._`

`I could hear you moaning all the way to my room. How loud do you think the shower is?`

Jaime hoped she was blushing at that. It was not entirely true that she’d been loud; it was more about the house being as small as a matchbox, the walls being thin, and him standing in the hallway at the time. Brienne’s moans had been more like sighs and slightly heavy breaths, but he was not about to hold back now.

To his surprise, she replied quickly.

`_All you ever want is for everyone to want you. And what then? You’ll tell me how manly I am? How ugly?_`

`I’ll tell you I want you, too.`

`_You said you didn’t._`

`I reserve the right to change my mind.`

`_I don’t believe you._`

“Fucking hells,” he mumbled under his breath. _You tell her that you’re not interested once, and she goes into lockdown for good_. Jaime decided it was time to be blunt, and leave it in her hands. He had never been a womanizer, though many believed him so. He had only ever been interested in Cersei and she had been quite easy to persuade when it came to sex. Brienne’s defenses were thicker and higher than the Wall.

At last, he wrote:

`You think that you have me figured out, that you know everything about me, but you don't know how my cock would feel inside you. You don't know the pleasure I could give you, the way that I could make you moan and shiver beneath me. Say the word, Brienne, and I’ll show you right now.`

The longest silence yet came after that. Then Brienne deleted the file, so he closed his laptop and set it aside, waiting. The way his cock strained against his boxers was almost painful now, so he reached down and grasped it, giving it a few slow jerks and feeling instant relief. His mind rushed to the images he was incapable of shaking away, her small breasts, nipples hard at the sight of him; her open mouth, just big enough for him, for all of him, the angles of her strong body, the almost undetectable curve of her waist. The blond bush between her legs, how she would be wet and ready for him. He increased the speed of his thrusts, finally releasing some of the tension that was consuming him.

As if part of his fantasy, he heard the sound of Brienne getting up from the bed as it creaked. Then her feet touched the ground, and after two heavy steps, she stopped. Was she coming to him? He should probably stop now, but if anything, he grew more aroused at the idea of her finding him this way. It would show her just how much he was aching to fuck her.

He heard the sound of bones cracking as she stretched, heard something light hitting the ground. In the darkness of his eyelids, he saw her undressing. He smirked, each breath feeling like an hour, and finally opened his eyes to stare at his half-open door. Her own door opened unhurriedly, every inch tainted by the last of her doubts. Another step. Jaime’s cock was hot and pulsing, every stroke pushing him closer to the edge, way too close, but he didn’t care. If he came and had to wait, he could make sure to pleasure her in the meantime.

Knowing she stood right outside, listening to his heavy breathing, made his head spin. Jaime wanted to ask her to come in, to let go, to get in his bed, to tell her how much he _needed_ her, how much he wanted to spread her legs and sink inside her, make her writhe beneath him, hear his name desperately leaving her lips, her fingers pulling his hair as he thrust again, and again—

With a low growl, he came, feeling the warm fluid spill over his hand and inside his boxers. Once the disorientation cleared, Jaime focused on the room, expecting to see Brienne’s eyes in the darkness, as full of desire as they had been in the bathroom. But she was not there.

He got up and opened the door, but only the empty hallway greeted him. Brienne’s door was closed once more; he must not have heard it through the cloud of excitement. He thought better of knocking, of walking into her room as though he had always belonged there.

The text ringtone of his cell phone got his attention, so he absently walked back into his room to find its green light flickering.

_Now we’re even. Good night, Jaime._


	12. Impulsive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: [A Perfect Circle - Gimme Gimme Gimme](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JuQX-lZRAP0) | [Lyrics](http://songmeanings.com/songs/view/3530822107858515737) | Beta'ed by [YellowDelaney](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowDelaney/pseuds/YellowDelaney)
> 
>  **Please listen to the song if you can!** This song sets the mood for the entire chapter and it’s basically the reason it was even written, as I had it on a loop in the background the entire time.

Chapter 12: Impulsive

_Impulsive actions led to trouble, and trouble could have unpleasant consequences._

* * *

When Brienne woke up, her head started spinning upon recalling the previous night’s conversation. Her cell phone told her it was nearly three in the afternoon. More than once she had woken and hidden back underneath her sheets, unwilling to face whatever was outside of her four walls.

She wondered if it had all been part of a dream—a very dirty dream—to find out that Jaime was capable of saying such things to her, of feeling them altogether. But she knew that if she opened her computer and checked her backup of their text file, she’d find every word there, the trail of a declined invitation.

Brienne wrapped her sheets tightly around herself. She was still nude underneath, a reminder of what she could have had, were it not for the shadow of doubt that had settled dark and heavy above her as soon as she reached Jaime’s door. Amidst her desires and his, a dim light shone in the mist to alert her of the dangers ahead. They were working together night and day to find Sansa, to uncover the mysteries behind the Red Wedding and so many women’s deaths. They also had to share a living space, which would make it much harder to go through with the investigation if things went awry—and they surely would, if she decided to jump into bed with Jaime Lannister.

She had nearly walked into his bedroom with his words stamped in her memories, every one of them driving a current of warmth through her veins and sending shivers down her spine. Hearing him in his bed, seeking relief simply because of their encounter in the bathroom, because of their brief exchange, had been a foreign experience for her. Even with all the teasing and rejection, with the distance they had established between each other, she had felt wanted.

Brienne had never felt wanted before.

It had taken all of her strength to turn around and leave, shutting her door as quietly as she could. The bed had sheltered her from the frightening risk of leaving her comfort zone, of embarking on an adventure that would lead her to things too risky, with too much potential for hurt.

She focused her hearing in the room next to hers, trying to detect any movement on Jaime’s part. She was not even sure how she would look him in the eye after what had been said, but if they somehow had a normal conversation after their encounter in the bathroom, today would hopefully be no different. She got dressed in silence, throwing on a pair of jeans and a plain black t-shirt.

She found Jaime in the living room, tying his running shoes. He wore a sports jacket, a woolen hat and a scarf, seemingly on his way out. Gazing at the kitchen table, Brienne found the hunting brochure that they had received the previous day, which she had rescued from the trash.

“Are you going for a run?” she asked.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“But we got that threat only yesterday, and the woods are going to be full of hunters. It’s the first day . . .”

He stood up abruptly, done with his shoes, and put away his cell phone and keys in the pocket of his jacket. His tone dripped with irritation and he was frowning. “You’re welcome to join me,” Jaime snapped, green eyes flaring. “We can hold a contest to see who puts together more wolf heads. How’s that?”

She shook her head in disbelief. “You’re seriously going to be like this?”

“Oh, excuse me,” he replied. “I’d forgotten that the holy Brienne Tarth does no wrong. She would never expose herself to danger, or gods forbid, anything that prompts a heartbeat.”

“Is this about last night?” she growled. “You’re going to berate me for thinking with the right head?”

Jaime burst out laughing, and Brienne’s face flushed in irritation. She would have never taken him for the kind of person who threw a tantrum because a woman refused to sleep with him. Most especially considering she was barely a woman, with her flat chest and thick shoulders and unflattering face. Wasn’t he supposed to be the adult?

“You keep swerving the car, Brienne,” he told her in amusement. “I thought you said you were convinced that I didn’t want you. Now you think I’m acting this way because my balls are blue?” Jaime closed the distance between them and, before she even realized it, his lips were mere inches from her ear. She could feel the heat of his face against hers, despite the lack of direct touch. There was no way to retreat; her backside was pressed against the kitchen counter. “I know what I want and I’m not afraid to ask for it. I also know what I see.” His fingers brushed her neck, soft and slow, a gentle sway of the ground before the surge of an earthquake. When she felt the weight of his other hand on her hip, her breath caught in her throat and her heart threatened to jump out of her chest. “Is this a lie? You shaking like a twig whenever I’m close? You’re not fooling anyone.”

She knew it was true, all of it. It angered her that it was, but following his game would be too unpredictable. Jaime could place her in his hand like a butterfly, and it would be in his power to caress her or crush her. Brienne knew for a fact how his retorts could sting, how his impulsiveness drove him to do the unexpected, and her life had always been about guarding herself as best she could—she’d had enough of the unexpected to last her a lifetime.

But there was also the way her body felt foreign to her in his presence. The way she could almost choke at the sight of his face, his easy smiles, his golden hair shining like a halo, the way some rebellious strands would stick to his beard. And then there were his gazes, the dead serious ones, those that came from the Jaime she trusted.

“You’d best start thinking about what it is you want, and what you don’t,” Jaime said finally, moving away from her, all traces of his playfulness gone. Without another word he left the house, and Brienne’s head was filled with images of a severed wolf head, a memory in red, covered in panic and surrounded by death.

* * *

The road was no longer as damp as it had been weeks before, and the color of every tree was exposed, instead of covered in a thick blanket of whiteness. The weirwoods Jaime had seen on the road had leaves of vivid crimson, their faces mostly faded, though some of them were freshly cut for restoration. Many northmen still kept faith with the Old Gods, and they insisted that their deities could not see unless their eyes were wide open. The sap that dripped from their slits looked eerie, especially with the deep silence that hung over the forest. Even the crows were quiet, and not a single wolf howl had been heard since he had left the house.

His legs were strong and the pace of his run was perfectly controlled, as was the rhythm of his breathing. Though he was no longer so young, now on his forties, he had gotten some exercise since coming to Winterfell, which had done wonders to restore his resistance. Maybe he should dedicate himself to lifting weights and develop some muscle; see if it would get the infuriating geek to react.

Jaime stepped away from a dead squirrel as he resumed his run on the stony trail. There were thick groups of trees on either side of him, and judging by the lack of signs on this part of the road, he could tell that he was a fair way through his journey. The remainder would lead him to the entrance of the Wolfswood, and then it was a short walk back to the small house. He was dreading the thought of heading there, to the heaviness that hung in the air, to Brienne’s hesitant eyes, her doubts and her indecision. Jaime had little experience courting a woman, much less being constantly rejected by one—and one who _wanted_ him, at that. His relationship with Cersei had been as natural as breathing, as practiced as any activity that you did for over twenty years. If only his stepsister could see him now, flirting with a girl over fifteen years younger than him, and whose ugly face could make any kid cry faster than if they’d spilled their ice cream.

He sped up, hoping to let out all of the contained energy that would have been much better suited for a different kind of physical activity; one that Brienne refused to partake in. The wind pounded against his ears, strong and fierce, as if trying to steal all the thoughts straight from his head. Half a mile later he was so out of breath that he stopped by a stream, leaning his back against an oak and gasping loudly. He removed his scarf and his hat, both of them now soaked with sweat.

 _Boom_.

The sound pierced the air like thunder. The echo that followed was nearly as deafening, and only then did the crows caw out and take flight, filling the sky like so many black stars. Jaime dropped to the floor as an instinctive reaction, tasting the mud in his mouth and feeling a warm liquid pour down his temple. He felt a throb on the side of his head, and did his best to think through his shock. Then came the sound once more, a bang, a bullet that flew in the air, hitting the tree where Jaime’s head was a second earlier. From his low position, he saw a group of flies buzzing nearby, gathering together around something fresh. He was paralyzed, trying to think where the shot could have come from. He should _run_ , but where? Which direction could he choose, which one was safe?

The shots stopped; the hunter must be trailing after him, trying to discover him. The second shot had proved that aiming for Jaime was no mistake. He crawled towards the flies, the cold air causing his eyes to water. The animal that had caused such interest in the bugs turned out to be a dead direwolf, with its side pierced by the antler of a stag. Jaime had never seen such a creature; it was twice the size of a normal wolf, and its teeth looked like they could rip apart a man like a mere ragdoll.

Jaime heard the leaves rustle and held his breath, rummaging through his pocket for his cell phone, the geek’s face filling every corner of his mind. _I’m here, get help_. He forced his hand to remain steady long enough to pull out the device, to unlock it and find her number, to press the call button—

The crunch intensified; whoever was out there was getting close. _Brienne_ , his screen read, _Brienne Tarth, calling_ . . . No signal. He cursed silently, recalling her warning not to go into the woods the day after receiving a threat. _Fuck this idea. Fuck these woods._ He got on his hands and knees, ready to dart in the opposite direction of the sound.

Then there was a bark.

It was fierce and loud, and came from the mouth of a big, wolfish mutt that ran towards him. Its yellow eyes regarded Jaime with rage, he barked again and again, slobber dripping from its open jaw. When the animal made to bite, baring his teeth fiercely, Jaime’s instincts took over—he pulled the stag’s antler out of the direwolf and struck the dog on the shoulder. In its fury the creature growled and tried to bite him again, but Jaime threw a handful of dirt in its eyes and struck him on the neck. This time the pointy antler dug deep into its fur. With a whimper and a struggle, the beast dropped to the ground, bleeding profusely.

Jaime got to his feet and started to run, every feeling and thought numbed by the adrenaline that rushed through his veins. He crossed the small stream in three steps, ran through the trees, feeling more than one branch get on his way and slap his face. His body was steel, there was no pain, no limit, his legs dragged him through it all like a leaf in the wind, running tirelessly until he found himself darting parallel to one of the main roads.

Soon afterwards came another gunshot, loud and clear, much closer than the others.

* * *

Brienne watched the minutes pass, sitting on the couch, her hands fiddling with one of the cushions. She should be working, investigating Red Jeyne or Grey Jeyne or missing girls from the north, bank accounts and properties and Petyr Baelish’s brothels. She should be thinking of a solution to the question of who took Sansa Stark, or searching for a prostitute in King’s Landing with auburn hair and blue eyes and a secretly prestigious last name.

Instead she sat there, her concern growing with every passing minute, because it had been four hours since Jaime left for his run. Because they had received a threat, because they had found a wolf head in their home, because someone knew they were onto them and very clearly wanted to kill them. That someone could be achieving half of their goal right now, and Jaime could be lying on the side of the road, cold and alone and dying, just like her father that day in Tarth, and again she would be too late, powerless to do anything but watch the life go out of his eyes.

She covered her face with her hands, trying to convince herself that she was being stupid, that Jaime probably had just headed for Winter Town for lunch, that maybe he had gone for another run and there was no decent signal in the Wolfswood. He was such an idiot, making her worry like this. He could have sent her a message or called her, just to let her know that he would take longer . . .

Jaime shouldn’t need to explain anything to her, because she was no one in his life. Brienne was merely his co-worker, someone he had hired to help out with the investigation, and no one had to give explanations to people who were not involved in their personal life. And she wasn’t. Even though she knew everything there was to know about his past, though she had met his daughter that was not his daughter, though she had told him her secrets, the torments of her past, those that she kept deeply inside herself, away from curious eyes. Brienne had told him about her father, about Renly, about Biter, about the man she’d killed.

She had to turn her thoughts in a different direction. Nothing was wrong, and any moment now, Jaime would text her to say that he was coming, that he was on his way. It was the _least_ he could do—he was such a selfish bastard sometimes, with his foolish impulsiveness, with that persistent need to go out looking for trouble, standing like a target in the middle of the damned Wolfswood . . .

The door flew open.

Brienne stood, ready to snap at him, ready to yell and protest and curse him.

The first thing she saw were his eyes. They were wide and startled, as though he had just seen a ghost. Half of his face was covered in dirt, and his hair was all in tangles, dark and messy. His clothes were askew and he panted heavily as he shut and locked the door in a hurry.

Most disturbingly, Jaime was covered in blood.

She strode towards him, one, two, three steps, reached him and fisted her hands on his chest, while her own was heaving with every terrified breath she took. The blood was coming from the side of his head, a gash; it was hard to tell how serious the damage was because of the mud and blood around it, but he was still standing and somehow had made his way back to the house.

“Why did you do this?” Brienne bellowed, angrier than she had any right to be. “I told you not to go out there, you’re such an idiot, Jaime, you never want to listen—”

“Brienne.” He blinked, as if trying to adjust to his surroundings. He reached for her hand to still her, and she saw that it was covered in blood as well. “Brienne,” he repeated, his voice hoarse and worn out.

With shaking hands, she grasped his arm, fighting to keep her panic at bay as she dragged him towards the bathroom. Injuries, blood, she needed to think of that, to assess it and fix it. She had to keep her focus, could not let go of it. Jaime’s skin was damp where she touched him. She half carried him into the tub, as gently as she could through her anger and her fright, and took off his jacket and shirt.

He seemed uninjured everywhere else, though the entire left side of his body was covered in a trail of blood from his head. Brienne turned on the shower hose and washed his wound with care, splitting the strands of hair until she had uncovered the injury. The laceration was less than half an inch deep and around three inches long. A gunshot. Brienne grabbed a handful of his hair, frowning deeply. “How could you be so _careless_?” she asked through gritted teeth. “How could you not think of this?”

The blood flow had visibly slowed down, now that his breathing had relaxed. Brienne grabbed his shirt and pressed it against his head, barely realizing that her hand was still trembling as she focused on finding any other injuries. He had a scratch on his face and a couple others on his arms, but they were shallow. She used the hose to clean the grime off them, watching as his skin became cleansed under the current. Her fingers trailed softly over the cuts, removing the last of the dirt. The water that slid down towards the drain was red and black, the remains of a possible conclusion that fate had decided to thwart.

“Brienne,” Jaime told her once more, touching her chin so she would look at him, but she did not want to see, she could not. She could not allow him to cause this in her, this unreasonable concern, not again—

As soon as she saw his green eyes, there was nothing else she could do. Letting out a tearless sob, Brienne pressed her forehead against his, and his mouth covered hers fiercely. She kissed him with everything she had to give, kissed her panic and her fears and her doubts into his lips. His tongue came to greet her and she spread her lips for a welcome, feeling the warmth invade her, falling into an unplanned synchronicity with every kiss, with every brush of his lips against hers. Jaime’s fingers rested against the back of her head as he stood and brought her up with him.

He half-stumbled out of the tub and pressed her against the closed door. His arms pulled her to him and she gave into him, into all of it. There were no questions left when her mind painted the image of what ifs; one inch to the right, just one inch, and he would be lying in those woods, forever unmoving.

Jaime’s tongue swept over her damaged cheek, wiping an elusive tear and washing all of her reticence away. His hands traveled down her spine, touching her eager skin. She felt as though his fire was turning her to ashes, the ashes of her previous self, whoever she had been before Winterfell.

There was no feeling, no thinking, nothing but raw need behind their tongues meeting and their touches. Brienne needed to confirm with every stroke of her tongue on his neck that he still existed, that Jaime was there and he was breathing, that there was still enough of that blood that poured out of him inside his body, pumping him full of oxygen. Lust was only surpassed by rage and fear, by a rush through her veins that blocked her mind and turned her into an accelerated particle in motion.

If he was still feeling pain, he did not express it in any way. He pulled her closer until they slid to the floor and she was straddling him. When she lowered her hips, she felt how hard he was, and a sigh of exhilaration escaped her. It was real, all of it was happening; it was not a fantasy, it was not just teasing or gazes or heated messages on a machine.

“Brienne,” he whispered into her ear. He grasped her backside and pulled her higher, pinching her nipples with his teeth through the thin fabric of her shirt. She let out a gasp and, hardly thinking about it, took off her shirt. The moisture of Jaime’s avid tongue against her hardened buds made it feel like she was flying, like she had been headed somewhere for hours and days and weeks and was now only getting there, like she had wanted, she had _needed_ so deep inside her, as deep as she wanted him to be.

When he pulled her into a kiss, the warmth of his exposed chest pressing against hers sent shivers down her spine. He was strong, so very strong, Brienne’s hands wandered past his shoulders, clutching his arms and feeling the taut muscles on his torso. With a gesture from him, she lifted herself off him, allowing him enough space to take off his running pants and his boxers. As soon as she gazed down at his cock, she could see Jaime’s grin spread across his face through the corner of her eye, but she was far past caring—if anything, it was making her even more aroused. She wondered how long it had been since he’d known all of it, that he had her, that she fantasized about him, about shifting on top of him, having him drive into her, slow and deep and thick—

Her thoughts were silenced by him moving on top of her, getting her to lie down on a towel on the floor. His hips shifted against her thigh, teasing her with every inch of his length while grasping her earlobe with his teeth. Jaime’s hand brushed her back as she arched it underneath him, desperately seeking some friction. His fingernails scratched her belly and the hair that surrounded her entrance, coming to rest next to the nub that was burning for his touch. His eyes met hers, glinting with as much desire as mischief. He kissed her again, tongue dragging over her lower lip, kissed her until they were breathless, and then smiled against her mouth.

Brienne wanted to scream, to ask him for it, but she was not sure how to form words anymore. His finger slipped lower only to feel her wetness, and she knew that all he wanted was to revel in how much he could provoke her. How, after so long, after struggling and pulling and pushing, she was here, squirming beneath his body. Her hands worked out the actions that her brain could not; she unzipped her pants and Jaime pulled them off her, biting his lip as soon as he placed his hand over her damp underwear.

She felt the heat on her face, more from yearning than embarrassment. He kissed all the way down her neck, slight brushes of his tongue tracing her skin, while he removed her underwear and positioned himself between her legs. She complied and spread them, felt his hand grasp the back of her knee. The tip of his cock slipped inside her, opening her in the slightest, a mere taste of what was to come. He remained there, staring at her, challenging her. Blood ran past his temple, all the way down to his chin, and dripped onto her neck. It was warm, as warm as they were, as warm as all of him felt inside her when she took him in a single thrust.

Jaime bit her jaw from the intensity of the sensation, and Brienne felt like her head was spinning. All of the tension that had arisen in her as soon as she spotted him, bloody and wide-eyed, had transformed into something else, into pure energy that pumped the blood through her veins and had her moving her hips in a rhythm with his, fast and hard, as if trying to make up for lost time.

Sighs turned into panting, blood mixed with sweat and water. She noticed his bleeding increased due to the motion, but it was not in her to stop anymore. He shifted his angle and shoved himself deeper inside, grazing a place that she had never known was there. With a whimper on her lips she was dragged into total whiteness, an absence of existence, a moment where their juncture was all there was. Letting go of the last of her control, she felt her walls grasp him tightly and dug her nails into his back, trying to keep herself grounded.

Once she opened her eyes, Jaime resumed the movement of his hips with an amused sigh. An impulse overtook her and she rolled them over, forcing Jaime to sit with his back against the bathtub. She adjusted her position and placed her fingers around his length, giving it a long, slow stroke that made him groan before she took him inside her. The waves of her pleasure had retreated, but the tension built up again every time she lowered her hips to meet him. Brienne cupped his face in her hands, watching as her fingers became stained with blood; kissed him and bit his lower lip, pulling just enough for it to prickle. Burying his face in her neck, Jaime thrust up as deeply as he could, reaching his peak and holding her so close that she could feel his heart beating against her chest.

If she could have ever imagined anything of the sort happening, she would have thought to be afraid of looking him in the eye afterwards. She would be scared of what was left behind the trail of lust, long after the itch was satisfied, after they could split the tension and turn it into raging lust.

But now that she was living it, she knew that looking at his eyes was easy. There was no mockery in him, not with the way he had touched her, not with her name on his lips. Flickers of fear flashed in his gaze, bright with the rush that only a near-death experience could bring. She knew it well.

To her surprise, the first thing Jaime did was kiss her, soft but firm. Her confirmation of reality had already passed, but this was his; this was the way he knew he was alive.

Coming back to her senses, Brienne shifted to allow his spent cock to slip out of her, but she remained sitting on his hips, and he made no move to stand. She reached for Jaime’s stained shirt and wrapped it carefully around his head, covering the wound, and he never took his eyes off her. Using the towel they had been lying upon, she wiped away the blood from his face and from her own neck, while his hand traced circles on her lower back.

“Does it hurt?” she whispered, tightening the knot of the shirt. “You need stitches . . .”

He laughed against her shoulder. “Stitches? _Now_ that you’re done with me, you want to give me stitches?”

“I should’ve given you stitches right from the start,” Brienne mumbled, though she couldn’t help but bite her lip. She had never had such a level of intimate contact before, and found herself feeling afraid of how comfortable the sensation was with Jaime, like it had all been a long time coming.

“I won’t believe that.” Jaime’s thumb traced lazy circles around one of her nipples, making her realize how much she still wanted him, even in spite of her concern for his injury. The tourniquet appeared to be holding, at least. “You were worried enough to be straight with me for once.”

She held her breath. Waited.

“About fucking time, too,” he said finally, brushing his fingers against the scar on her side. His other hand cupped her breast, and he took her nipple in his mouth as deftly as though he knew every inch of her body by memory. When he clamped his teeth around it tentatively, she let out a gasp.

“Jaime,” she muttered almost unintelligibly, “Jaime, we need to get you . . . to a hospital . . .”

“Fuck hospitals,” he replied, moving to her other nipple. She ran her hands through his hair, half in tenderness and half guiding him to the rhythm she craved. “You can stitch me up. You fix things, don't you?”

She gave him a weak nod in response.

“I'll drink some wine and bite on a rag, and you'll get it done in no time. A bandage and a cigarette and I'll be good as new.” With a satisfied grin he brushed her thighs with his fingertips, the slightest touch of skin on skin.

Brienne could not quite process the sensations he was causing in her. She had never felt anything so intense, not by herself or with Hyle. Jaime's voice gave her gooseflesh; the mere way he whispered in just the right tone had her rubbing her hips against his in spite of herself.

“Did you like it? Was it everything you had in mind?” he teased. “When you were here, aching for me . . .” His fingers spread her folds, while his other arm grasped her around the waist to keep her from melting like butter. “Like this,” he whispered, circling her nub with his thumb, then running it over the skin there, causing her to moan against his cheek. Two of his fingers slipped inside her with ease, and she lowered herself onto them. “Thinking of me . . . Was it good?”

Her face flushed and she nodded, bucking her hips as he slipped in and out, still rubbing her sensitive skin with his thumb. Jaime could have gotten her to say anything, do anything then. “Yes,” she groaned, breaths shortening, “Jaime, yes . . .”

He added another finger, and after that she was lost. With every other plunge she panted out his name, savoring the taste of it in her mouth. She barely opened her eyes and looked at him, at the shape of his jawline, at the focused look in his eyes, at the way his cock was hardening slowly and twitched with every one of her moans. He twisted his fingers, and she came for a second time, long and drawn out, like a wave washing over the shore.

Brienne thought it might be the right time to realize what had happened, to blush at his whispered words and shrink back, but instead she leaned against his body. Jaime encircled her with his arms and said nothing more, both of them waiting for their heartbeats to slow down.

It could have been seconds or minutes by the time they stood. She didn’t feel the need to shield her body from his eyes, nor he from hers. She helped him back into the shower, making sure he was not lightheaded from the injury. The blood flow had stopped long enough for a frail scab to form.

Once they had washed up and dressed, Brienne retrieved the first aid kit from one of the kitchen cabinets and set out to sew the wound. She had more than enough training in first aid from camping with her father; he always insisted that in the wild anything could happen, and you had to be prepared.

She told Jaime to take some painkillers, to which he begrudgingly agreed. They took effect soon, and she helped him to his bed, with him muttering complaints under his breath along the way. She left him and headed back to her room to plop down on the bed, feeling like a completely different person had taken over her in the course of the day. More exhausted than she thought, her eyes soon felt heavy and her mind went blank.

The last of her fading consciousness was filled with the motion of a body lying down beside her, the muttering of incoherent words and an arm coming to rest around her waist.

“I don't do one-night stands,” Jaime grumbled in her ear.

Brienne almost laughed. One-night stands were the only thing she’d ever had.

 _It's only sleep_ , her conscience whispered, aching to return to its dormant state. She relaxed back into his arms; his warmth felt like a shield that guarded her from the cold, a cloak to drive away the chilly wind of the night.

Sleeping alone was her haven, it was important not to find herself relying on anyone’s presence at her side. Depending on others was impractical, people were cruel and volatile. People always left behind a void.

And still, against her better judgment, she let Jaime sleep beside her.


	13. Deny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: [Smashing Pumpkins - Pug](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bJorWoa4Ikg) | [Lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/smashingpumpkins/pug.html) | Beta'ed by [YellowDelaney](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowDelaney/pseuds/YellowDelaney)

Chapter 13: Deny

_“Nobody can avoid falling in love. They might want to deny it, but friendship is probably the most common form of love.”_

* * *

Jaime woke at dawn, just like he did every day, even though Brienne’s opaque curtains did not allow for the first rays of sunshine to filter through. In spite of all his time away from King’s Landing and _Millennium_ , it was still difficult to rid himself of a habit that had set the rhythm of his life for the past five years.

Generally he would go for a run to force some oxygen into his brain, but the throbbing on the side of his head reminded him that it would be a while before he could do any sort of exercise. Not to mention the fact that they had an experienced shooter trailing after them, and the woods would hardly be safe until they could close in on their pursuer.

Farlen was Jaime’s first suspect for Littlefinger’s accomplice in Winterfell, and so far he perfectly fit the profile. He was a good shot; he needed to be, so he could keep the manor and its grounds safe from the animals that inhabited the Wolfswood. The person who had chased Jaime in the woods had used a mutt to sniff out his presence, and Farlen had plenty of dogs to pick from.

None of the evidence was enough, though, and Jaime had learned that when things fit too perfectly, there was usually a flaw in the answer. Real solutions always had a misshapen piece, one that had to be molded into fitting, not quite designed for the puzzle, but completing it nonetheless.

He shifted slightly, pulling Brienne’s waist closer to him. She was still fast asleep, probably exhausted from the events of the previous day. _All of the events_. He smiled, nuzzling his head against her shoulder and causing a low groan to leave her lips. Jaime took his time to look at the shape of her neck in the half-darkness, sliding down the strap of her tank top to reveal the tattoo on her shoulder blade. His thumb swept over it, curious as though he might find the blackened flesh to have a different texture than the rest of her smooth, freckled skin. Then his hand came to rest around her belly, inside her shirt, where she was warm from the protection of the covers.

“Sleeping,” Brienne mumbled hoarsely. She was nothing short of annoyed, which happened to be Jaime’s favorite version of the geek. “Stop.”

Stopping was the last thing he wanted. After being so close to getting killed, feeling the wound of the bullet that grazed his head, he was sick and tired of waiting. With the constant threat of Baelish’s man hanging over them night and day, who knew if they were safe at all, even with all of Brienne’s cameras and motion detectors. All Jaime wanted was to do what he pleased, when he pleased.

To silence her unintelligible protests, Jaime pressed his hips closer to her, letting her feel his morning erection on her lower back. He grinned against her neck, eager to see her response. Brienne turned around with her blue eyes wide open, drawing in a breath. He gave her his most charming smile. “There are much better things to do than sleep.”

He kissed under her jaw and she sighed, one of her hands grasping the hair at the back of his neck. What little movements she made were slow and clumsy, sleep still heavy over her features. When Brienne ran her fingers behind his ear, she felt the bandage and pulled back her hand violently.

“Jaime, you need to rest,” she whispered, her bleary eyes staring at his temple and adjusting the bandage to its previous position. “And it's way too early for this.”

“Are you serious?”

“I never joke about sleep.”

Rolling her eyes, she turned back around and threw a pillow over her head. His next attempt at pulling her close earned him a kick in the shin, so he gave up and headed for the bathroom instead. Were it not for Brienne’s immeasurable enthusiasm the previous night, he might have felt like she was already regretting her decision. But she had finally shown her true colors, dropping all pretense in favor of releasing the tension that had built between them like a dam, and Jaime was not about to let her cower back into her inner world, where he was never given half a chance to be with her.

* * *

“Stay still.”

He could be such a child. It was the third time Brienne tried to unwrap the bandage, only to be poked on the side in an attempt to get her to smile. But smiling was not on her list of priorities while they had a killer on the loose, not to mention all the unanswered questions in the investigation, and her concerns about Jaime not wanting to see a doctor.

Brienne was sitting beside Jaime on the couch, with the first aid kit open on the coffee table. He had taken off his shirt to avoid staining any more clothing. Once he finally allowed her to remove the bandage, she did her best to assess the severity of the damage. The bloodstains on the piece of cloth were not too big; it was normal for such a fresh wound to bleed, especially if he had lain on that side during his sleep. The stitches she had given him were holding nicely, and there seemed to be no sign of infection.

She closed in on him, pressing her hand to his brow to feel his temperature. The fact that he had no fever was an excellent prognosis for his injury. For all his stubbornness, Jaime was right in his caution—visiting a hospital would draw unwelcome attention. The media was not oblivious to the way he had dropped off the face of the earth after his trial, and they would be eager to get the story behind his gunshot wound if they received the feeblest tip from an employee.

When Brienne brushed a strand of hair from the side of his face to clear the area for the bandage, he pulled her into a kiss. It was soft and playful, unlike the ones they had previously shared. When they broke apart, his smug expression had her wanting to punch him, but instead she leaned down and gave him a kiss of her own, longer than his.

Jaime tasted like nothing she could have made up in her head. He tasted of the scent that filled her blanket, the same scent that kept her warm night after night, fading as the weeks passed. He tasted of desire and charm and blunt honesty, and most of all, he tasted of familiarity, something that she hadn’t known in many years. He deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue against hers and surrounding her waist with his arms, but she placed her hands against his chest to stop him.

“First we need to take care of your wound,” she scolded, untangling herself from his grasp to take the last of the clean bandages from the table. With the way he was acting, she was grateful that she had considered their living room camera too invasive and turned it off days earlier.

He gave her a knowing smile, raising an eyebrow. “You're quite the dedicated nurse, aren’t you? Maybe you _are_ too good to fuck me.”

"I _have_ ,” Brienne retorted, keeping her eyes firmly focused on the laceration. As soon as she approached him a second time, bandage in hand, he placed his hands around her broad waist beneath her shirt. They were warm, and firm in their resolve.

“You have what?” Jaime pushed, biting his lip through a grin.

“Fucked you,” she mumbled, feeling a blush creeping up her cheeks in spite of herself. He looked very proud of himself for managing to embarrass her, even though the previous day they had done things that should make talking about it quite simple.

“You’d think after that, you’d have your priorities straight.” His thumb caressed the skin of her side, and her gaze traveled toward the bulge in his pants. Noticing her glance, Jaime pulled the garment down deftly, exposing every bit of himself to her. Her breath caught in her throat, but she made no move at all.

As a response, his hand encircled his cock, and he started stroking himself, long and slow, never moving his eyes away from hers. She felt her walls tightening at the sight, felt a current that spread from her core throughout the rest of her body, but she would not give in yet. If he could manipulate her that way, so could she.

Brienne stood and took off her pants, as languidly as the movement of his hand as he pleasured himself. His gaze focused on her newly exposed skin as it turned to gooseflesh. She sat on top of him on the couch, straddling him, and removed his hand from his cock. When she trapped his hips with her strong thighs, his smirk faded into an expression of amusement. Jaime tried to shift from her grasp, but she was much bigger than him, so after a few attempts he simply sat still, and she set out to wrap the clean bandage around his head. The task demanded endless patience, since he kept firmly grasping her ass inside her underwear, prompting her hips forward against his erection. She ignored it, or at least pretended to.

Once she had made sure the stitches would hold and the bandage was secure, she ventured to look into his green eyes. They were glinting with that same mischief she had witnessed before, but she no longer felt like slipping away from his grasp, so she relaxed against his body when he pulled her closer and buried his face in her neck, nipping softly.

“What do I get now for being a good boy?” he whispered, and she felt the vibration of every word against her throat.

Brienne touched the skin of his back, distracted by the utter perfection of his every muscle as he moved. Being with him felt like distancing herself from the rest of the world, forgetting any other thing that could have needed attention. It was too much for her senses to have him touch her, feel her, to have his scruffy beard brushing against her chest.

He dragged down the straps of her tank top and lowered the shirt until her breasts were exposed to him. The cold air hardened her buds quickly, and he grasped one of them while his lips set out to tease her earlobe, causing her to thrust her hips against his almost involuntarily. She reached down for his cock and took it in her hand, enjoying the way his expression shifted when she started stroking him, mimicking what he had been doing moments before. The way he hardened when her thumb swept over the head, and the dampness that emerged as a response, were causing a nameless sensation in her. Her grasp became firmer with every stroke, and with a low groan, Jaime pulled down her underwear in haste. Brienne felt a foreign urgency for his touch, for any kind of contact with him.

His nails scratched her back, sending a brief sting though her, but she found that she didn’t mind. He was leaving his mark upon her, claiming her. Freedom was always the flag she waved, the independence of not needing anyone to survive, but independence was also tiring. Lonely. Jaime's fingernails dug into her skin for possession, even though he had already had her. He wanted more; he wanted to keep her. No one had ever wanted to keep Brienne.

Slowly, she placed the tip against her entrance, and Jaime wasted no time pushing his hips up against her. She was still tender from the previous day, but somehow the slight pain served to make the pleasure more intense. Though at first she hissed and he stopped in response, she then grasped his shoulders and lowered herself onto his length, feeling as if the duality of the sensation might break her.

“Is that okay?” he asked softly, burying himself down to the last of her depths and remaining there, unmoving. She kissed him and he smiled against her lips. “Or are you still sore? Maybe it was too much for you . . .”

“Please,” she said in a sardonic tone, her breath hitching as she raised herself and took him in, again and again, working up a constant rhythm. “Don’t flatter yourself. And I _am_ stronger than you . . .”

She sped up the motion. Traces of slight pain coursed through her, all the way up her spine, but somehow the way he filled her was like nothing she had experienced before. She started panting, feeling Jaime’s sweat as his face rested against hers, his lips brushing her ear.

“What you are,” he whispered, his voice raw and hoarse, “is very wet . . .” Before she knew what was happening, he held her closer and rolled them over so they were lying down on the couch. Jaime entered her again, and watching his face loom over hers, twisted in pleasure as he thrust into her, made her tense around him and groan. “. . . and very tight for me,” he added, moving her knees higher up his side.

Her brain told her that it would be a very good time to feel mortified about the scene, but the rest of her told a different story. All she managed to reply was a scolding, half-scandalized, “ _Jaime_ ,” though it would be easy for him to tell that her heart was not in it. Her next noise was something between a moan and a whimper, and her orgasm hit her before she could even register it. This time Jaime sighed, like an immense weight had been lifted off his shoulders, and with a jerk, he came inside her.

By the time Brienne opened her eyes again, she thought she might have drifted off momentarily. Jaime was lying on top of her, with droplets of sweat on his cheeks and covering his forehead. Only when she shifted did she notice that her shirt was still tangled around her torso. She sat so that Jaime could shift into a more comfortable position, but all he ended up doing was placing her legs around his waist, sitting her on his hips, her chest firmly pressed to his. Brienne used the closeness to move his golden hair away from the bandage to make sure he was not bleeding through it. The cloth was still completely white—the healing process was going well enough.

“So, now that we’ve cleared up how you feel about me . . .”

“We have?” she asked with a snort.

“Do you want me to tell you again?”

This time she did blush and turned away, finding the coffee table very interesting all of a sudden. He placed his hand on her damaged cheek, running his thumb over her lips. She relaxed into his touch, surprised at how new the experience was for her, sharing a moment with someone afterwards. For all of his bluntness—and often, cruelty—he could be warm as well, when he wanted to be.

“We need to buy more bandages,” she mumbled, her thoughts drifting as he kissed her chin. “I can get those.”

“I’ll get them myself, geek, _later_ ,” Jaime replied, unfazed.

“Yes, because the best thing to do with a head injury and while loaded on painkillers is operating heavy machinery.” She wanted to stay with him, to remain close and forget about the outside world, forget that they had a very real threat awaiting them. But there was an unfamiliar pounding on her chest whenever she looked at the lines of his face, anytime she gazed into his eyes and felt acknowledged. It would make her vulnerable to dwell on it, and Jaime was the wrong person to be vulnerable with.

Brienne picked up her underwear and her pants, threw them on and fixed her top, heading to her room to pick up her towel and take a shower. When she stepped back out, Jaime grinned while blocking her way to the bathroom, one arm draped lazily over the entrance. He was still as naked as she had left him on the couch, and his damp hair was sticking to his temple.

“Why would you want to shower?” He pulled the front of her pants towards him. “You should go out just like you are, smelling of me.” His smile was so charming that she felt like her knees were about to buckle.

She dropped the towel on the floor with a sigh when he bit her lip. The bandages could wait. Just a while . . .

* * *

Winter Town was a small place, without much variety when it came to shopping. It only had one grocery store and one pharmacy, but Brienne had explored all the shops the day she had arrived, and knew that at the back of one of the inns there was a convenience store where she could get better prices. It was attended by an elderly woman called Nan who loved to tell stories about Westeros, and was kind enough not to make any rude comments about Brienne’s appearance.

The store, however, was closed that Sunday, forcing Brienne to go to the pharmacy instead. The aisles were cramped together, and the shelves were quite tall to accommodate all of the products in such a reduced space. As she looked for fresh bandages and a bottle of antiseptic, she heard two hushed voices in the aisle beside hers.

“You’ve missed _so_ much these past months,” came the first voice, sounding like an older woman. “The Kingslayer has moved here from King’s Landing!”

The other voice gasped and replied, “The Kingslayer? Jaime Lannister?” Her tone was deeper, but it appeared to be a lady in her sixties, at least.

“As he lives and breathes. He’s moved into the cabin outside of Winterfell. Looks like the Blackfish hired him for something.” The woman lowered her voice. “And he has a woman living with him. A huge one! She’s easily six feet tall.”

Her companion laughed. “How could I miss that? It’s outrageous! Tullys and Lannisters working together. And this Lannister fellow, we’ve never seen anything public with a woman, and he brought one here?”

“They call her the Kingslayer’s whore.”

“Well, they _are_ living together in that house.”

At those words, Brienne dropped her basket on the floor and walked out the door, feeling shaky. She leaned against her motorcycle, disbelieving of what she’d heard. She knew people must whisper about her, she was an unusual sight in the north with her height and her features, but she wasn’t aware that they had devised such a distasteful moniker for her as a consequence of living with Jaime.

She thought about Myrcella. The young girl had visited them long ago; nothing had even happened between them back then, and she’d assumed Brienne was Jaime’s girlfriend, or that she was sleeping with him, at the very least. Did the Blackfish think so, too? Did everyone? _Kingslayer’s whore_ . . . She could still feel Jaime close to her, touching her skin, whispering in her ear, taking her in the shower as the scalding water ran down their bodies, like she was a drug he could hardly abandon.

When the women walked outside, they both gave Brienne curious glances. She was sitting on top of her motorcycle, waiting for them to leave and hiding her unease behind a pair of dark sunglasses. Just watching them made her angry. If they only knew the things both she and Jaime had been going through, just to get Sansa Stark home, perhaps they would keep their foolish assumptions to themselves.

She went back into the store to buy the supplies she needed for Jaime’s injury, making sure she picked up her prescription for the pill.

* * *

The weeks passed quickly, blurring into each other, as if Jaime were watching them through a haze. Brienne cared for his injury, made sure he was taking the medicine she’d bought and removed his stitches when she thought the wound looked well enough. He could not deny that she was good at it—once the stitches came off, there was no more bleeding.

His part of the research had been stalled for more than a fortnight. There was no way to know for sure if Baelish had left with Sansa, and even if Jaime assumed that he had, there was still no trace of the girl. Jaime had called all of his underground contacts from _Millennium_ and questioned them about a girl with auburn hair and blue eyes in the streets of King’s Landing, but no one knew a thing about it, not even a couple of prostitutes who had given him statements for his research about Harrenhal.

Jaime’s mornings were the most productive, while Brienne slept like a log, refusing all of his advances until it was almost noon. As soon as her head would peek from her doorframe when she woke, he would waste no time before taking her back to bed and fucking her until they were both so spent that they could hardly move.

Old habits definitely died hard—sometimes, at night, when they were finally ready to sleep, he would drift off only to be awoken by Brienne getting out of bed to sit at the kitchen table, furiously typing on her laptop until three or four in the morning.

This was one of those nights. Jaime felt the absence of her warmth after falling asleep, so he got up and poured himself a glass of water while observing her with curiosity. She was wearing headphones, very focused on her task, so he snuck up behind her, trying to catch a glimpse of what was on the screen. There was an open window where a remote computer could be seen perfectly, as though Brienne were the one using it. In big green letters, at the top of the screen, there was a line that read ‘STAG__ exploit’. She was browsing through police files with astounding speed; he barely started reading one when she was already moving on to the next. Perhaps she was looking for something specific.

With a grin, he poked her side. She jumped at his touch, dropping her headphones and pushing away her chair in her surprise. Jaime couldn’t help but laugh a little.

“You _asshole_ , you scared me to death,” she complained, one hand pressed against her chest, and sat back down. “Don’t do that.”

Jaime sat beside her, focused on the screen. She copied some of the files she was browsing in a folder on her desktop as she went along. “Stag?” he asked. “Is that your hacker name?”

Her cheeks reddened slightly. “Don’t mock me.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare.” Part of him wanted to ask her to come back to bed—the gods knew how persuasive he could be—but another part was very curious about her research. “What are you doing?”

She moved aside so he could watch the screen. “It took me almost a week, but I hacked into the Night’s Watch central system at the Wall. They have all the official disappearance records from our period of interest, and even digitalized those that existed prior to the acquisition of the computers.” The geek opened three of the files in the folder marked ‘missing’. “I’ve already found four girls whose names match the code in Sansa’s diary. All the disappearances happened in the right time frame for Sansa to have known about them. I also have the locations where they were last seen.”

Jaime’s eyes scoured through the first names of all the women. “Helicent, Maude, Jez, Willow. How many women are there left?”

“Assuming that the ‘A’ is for Arya and the ‘S’ is for Sansa, only one. It begins with a ‘K’. I haven’t found anything that matches, though, and I’m done with the search. There are no results.”

“But you have most of them. Print their files. I’m getting nowhere right now, so I’ll look into it. What about Baelish?”

She did as he asked while replying, “Jez and Willow had mockingbird tattoos, though they were living in the north at the time instead of King’s Landing. Maybe they had decided to stop working for him.”

“And maybe he didn’t take it so well.” Jaime looked at the pictures of the women, all of them smiling. Families were wont to turn in the most beautiful photos of their missing relatives, as though they wanted that specific moment to remain frozen in time. _If only these girls’ parents knew what their tattoos stood for_. “The link to the north is strong. I think they were kidnapped and most likely murdered by Littlefinger’s contact up here. From what we’ve gathered, Sansa found out about them, and thus became a problem for Baelish.”

Brienne bit her lip. “Do you think he killed her?” she asked softly. “Do you think he could have killed Sansa?”

The glimmer in her blue eyes spoke volumes of the hope that she usually concealed beneath the critical eye of an investigator. He had to remind himself of how young she still was; she was not that far from Sansa’s age, if the redhead was still alive. Somewhere along the way, the assignment had become something very personal for Brienne, a quest to rescue a girl who had gone through hardship, not unlike herself. He had never considered it, but he started to worry that if they found out Sansa had died, it would crush Brienne’s confidence.

“There’s no sign of her,” Jaime replied with a frown. “You can’t dwell on false hope. Look at the Blackfish. He searched so long for Arya, only to find raw brutality in her stead. You can’t let this get to you.”

She looked away. “I know that.”

“Come back to bed.”

“Yes,” she whispered, but she did not move from her seat, even when he left.

* * *

The following morning was colder than any other in the past weeks. As soon as Jaime woke, he draped the blanket that Brienne had taken from him over the both of them to fight the chill. The fact that they were both completely naked did nothing to help, but he had little desire to dress when Brienne’s skin was pressed against his, her head nuzzled in his neck. He had woken much later than dawn, for once, so soon enough she let herself be swayed into accepting his touches. They were deep into a kiss, tongues meeting enthusiastically, when they were interrupted by the doorbell ringing. To his surprise, it was the geek who groaned in annoyance. He laughed under his breath and jumped off the bed with the sheet wrapped around his waist.

Jaime rushed to open the door, overlooking his state of undress, and accidentally knocked a vase next to the entrance to the floor as he realized it was the Blackfish who stood outside. The suddenness of the noise made Brienne slip into the living room with the blanket around her, a disconcerted expression on her face.

Brynden looked Jaime up and down, raising his eyebrows. “Well, good morning to you,” he said, taking off his coat and hanging it by the door.

Brienne’s face flushed, and she returned to her room without a word. Jaime unabashedly threw on a pair of his jeans that were slung over the couch, and a t-shirt that he found under the coffee table. All the while Brynden’s eyes were daggers, disapproval written in the lines of his face.

“I’d heard the rumors, and chose not to believe them,” the Blackfish told Jaime, sitting at the kitchen table. “It looks like I gave you too much credit.”

“My personal life, and Brienne’s, for that matter, are no one’s concern,” he replied with a shrug, swallowing his irritation. “We’re both consenting adults here.”

“I don’t care where you put it, Kingslayer,” the older man said, removing his scarf and leaning back on the chair. “As long as it doesn’t affect the investigation. You’ve had no breakthroughs in weeks.”

“It just so happens that we’re progressing with the names on that list we found in Sansa’s diary. So we’re hardly stalled.” Jaime headed to the kitchen and turned on the coffeemaker. “You’ll have your report when we have something more concrete.”

“I’ll be the one making the reports today,” he said gruffly. He pulled a CD out of the pocket of his jersey. “I don’t know if this will get us any new information, but I thought if anyone could dissect it, it would be Miss Tarth.”

It was then that Jaime noticed her, standing to the side of the room, her cheeks still speckled with bits of red. She had thrown on a pair of sweats and a hoodie, and looked as though she wished to become invisible. “Let’s see if you can find something, geek.”

They inserted the disc into the laptop. The Blackfish explained that he’d obtained it from Benjen Stark, Ned Stark’s brother. Benjen had a high-ranking position in the Night’s Watch, so he had snuck out some additional videos of the Twins from the night of the Red Wedding. The captain had been missing beyond the Wall for over a decade, so it had been impossible to gain access to the files before.

There were only two videos. The first one Brienne played only showed big colored pixels, and the audio was nothing but a screech. “It’s encrypted,” she informed them, running a series of incomprehensible commands. “It will take me some time to know what’s in it.”

The second file opened without issue. It displayed Arya Stark’s departure from the wedding from a different angle than the video they currently had. It took Brienne the best part of an hour to optimize it so they could have a more detailed image. In the meantime, Jaime and Brynden grudgingly shared a cup of coffee, and Jaime made the usual breakfast for the three of them, though Brienne paid little attention to it. When she was working, it was as though she stepped into a different galaxy. She became so stubbornly focused that she would not answer when he spoke to her, and when she finally came out of her daze, she had memorized a number of facts that never ceased to amaze him.

“It’s done,” she said finally, standing from the chair. “I’ve isolated her face. Or the parts of it I could, at least.”

Jaime inspected the image, setting the picture of Arya Stark beside the screen. From what he could see, she did not have the mockingbird tattoo on her neck, and her hair was tied in a ponytail. It was difficult to distinguish her features from the ones in the photograph, but one detail managed to catch Jaime’s eye. “Brienne, can you clear up the colors?”

She took a screen capture, and with a couple of commands, the saturation of the image intensified significantly.

“Look at her eyes,” Jaime told them, and both Brienne and Brynden focused on the screen. “They did not clear up with the change in color. _Holy shit_.” He rummaged through some of the files that were on the coffee table, until he found a copy of the police report of Arya’s death. He looked for the pictures where her face was focused, stained with blood and dirt.

“What are you getting at?” the Blackfish inquired with a frown. “What about her eyes?”

He set the photograph before them on the table, pointing toward the corpse’s eyes. “The eye color was indeterminate due to trauma.” He paced around the room, cursing under his breath and brushing his hand against his disarrayed hair. “How could we be so fucking stupid? She has no defensive wounds, and there was no skin from her attacker under her fingernails. If we know something, it’s that Arya behaved more like a feral dog than an innocent little girl. She would never sit still while being strangled.”

His companions’ eyes went wide at the suggestion.

“Jaime . . .” Brienne said, falling into the realization. “Does this mean—”

The Blackfish cut her off. His face had gone pale, and his tone had lost all of its usual severity. “That’s not Arya Stark in the photo,” he stated. “It’s Jeyne Poole.”


	14. Desire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: [Trent Reznor & Karen O - Immigrant Song (Led Zeppelin Cover)](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xQtXsp4tIbw) | [Lyrics](http://lyricstranslate.com/en/Trent-Reznor-Karen-O-Immigrant-Song-lyrics.html) | Beta'ed by [YellowDelaney](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowDelaney/pseuds/YellowDelaney)

Chapter 14: Desire

_He had often wondered whether it were possible to be more possessed by desire for any other woman. The fact was that they functioned well together, and they had a connection as addictive as heroin._

* * *

The board was back up.

The information they’d gathered now occupied the entirety of the wall instead of being confined to the smaller space of the board. Ever since the discovery of Arya Stark’s absence at the Red Wedding, they had needed a place to centralize the overwhelming amount of new data.

Jaime sat against the back of the couch, coffee in hand, taking his usual morning time to make a mental summary of where they stood. To anyone else it might seem like nothing but scribbles, but he and Brienne well knew the meaning of each note, highlight and date. In a corner, surrounded by a red box, was their most recent finding.

`**STARK, ARYA - DNA TEST**`  
` Date: Oct 21 2013`  
`Source: Hairbrush`  
`Sample provided: Test results obtained from King’s Landing Police Department`  
`Reference: Police Report Number KL2007-6578`  
`Result: NEGATIVE`

It was a week ago that they had confirmed the discrepancy between the results, proving that the girl found in the alleyway was Jeyne Poole, Sansa Stark’s best friend from Winterfell. The girl had traveled down to King’s Landing with the group when they had moved—her father, Vayon Poole, had wished for her to receive the high-quality education that Ned Stark offered. Vayon had left with them as well; he’d been part of the staff that left with Stark as support for their time in the capital, so that he could keep Winter Motors running successfully. At the time of Stark’s murder, Poole had been beside him, in the wrong place at the wrong time, and received the same treatment as his employer.

After the assassination, Jeyne had remained with Arya and Sansa under the care of Mrs. Mordane so they could finish the school year in the capital. Edmure Tully’s wedding would take place only a week after class ended, so the girls were meant to go to the Twins and then back to Winterfell, but Jeyne had chosen to travel directly to her home in the north. Her name was taken off the guest list and Catelyn Stark tried to arrange her passage to Winterfell, but there had been last minute complications with the flight, so Jeyne was forced to travel to the Twins with the rest of the group. It had taken Brienne a very long time to put the story together through school records, flight reservations and the Starks’ staff profiles.

Jeyne had been left out of the police reports during the Red Wedding because of how early she had departed; there were no traces of her presence in the ancient castle, and all along her face had been mistaken for Arya Stark’s. The only people who could have reported her missing were Mrs. Mordane or the Starks, but all of them had been killed or were missing. It was not that difficult to put two and two together and reach the conclusion that wherever Jeyne was headed when she’d escaped, she had little left in her life and ended up a hooker in Littlefinger’s brothel. In the most underground circles, it was well known that the prostitution network handled by Baelish had a reach much wider than King’s Landing, as was evidenced in the disappearances of the girls from the north.

It had also been Brienne’s task to discover how the police had obtained a positive DNA match for Jeyne Poole when compared to Arya Stark’s. Once more the trail had led to Petyr Baelish, as they’d suspected. A man named Janos Slynt, who had previously worked for the City Watch in King’s Landing, had been transferred to the Seagard Police Department shortly after the Red Wedding. Through enough digging in bank records, Slynt was revealed to be frequently paid by Baelish to overlook every case related to his brothels while he was working in the City Watch. It was highly likely that through Littlefinger’s influence, Slynt had been placed in a position where he had access to the police databases and could easily modify the DNA evidence. From that moment onwards, Jeyne Poole was, for all intents and purposes, Arya Stark.

The trash was overflowing with their discarded ideas about Arya’s location. Their first thought was that, if Jeyne was now Arya, perhaps Arya had taken Jeyne’s name, but that had led nowhere. It made no sense for Arya know of such a deep conspiracy.

Then there were lists of possible locations and endless research about Arya’s name in recent years, but if she lived, she was smart enough to have dropped that part of her identity. What had started as an investigation to find one girl had turned into two, and both threads of it had been stretched to their ends.

Jaime went to check on Brienne and found her still in bed, with her laptop on her thighs, watching something on the screen. From the background sounds he could tell it was Sansa’s video from the Twins. They had replayed it so often that he already knew every noise in it, every angle, every still; Brienne even more so, which meant that at this point she was simply going mad with their unfruitful efforts.

“What do you think you’ll find there that we don’t know already?” he asked, offering his cup of coffee.

She took it, barely looking at him, her eyes fixated on the playback. “We must have missed something.”

“We’ve been through this, Brienne.”

They had, over and over. Once she had decoded the video, they discovered a blurry shot of Littlefinger leaving the premises with someone after midnight. Though the person wore a dark, hooded coat, bits of auburn hair flew out of it, assuring them that it was in fact Sansa Stark. The timeline also matched what they had previously determined; there was enough time for a confrontation where Lysa Arryn ended up dead. “Sansa left with Baelish. He most likely killed Lysa, his next destination was the Eyrie, and he arrived there by himself. There is nothing more to tell from that. We should focus on something else.”

Knowing the geek, she would stare at the screen until she could convince herself that there was nothing else to get from the tape. In her stubbornness, she did not reply, so Jaime left her to her thoughts and headed back to the living room to stare at the elaborately set-up wall.

Although they knew it was a risk to keep up the board with so many breakthroughs, they had agreed to maintain it as long as one of them was in the house at all times. Photographs were everywhere: Jeyne Poole, alive and dead, Arya Stark, Sansa Stark, some of the guests in group shots, even Septa Mordane. The list of missing women was firmly pinned to one of the edges of the board, all of their pictures stapled to the document. They still had not discovered whom the mysterious ‘K’ represented, but they had enough information to know that all the variables of the equation were coming together and revolving around a single man—Petyr Baelish.

According to Brienne’s monitoring, Littlefinger was currently on a business trip in the Summer Islands. Though justified to his clients as a vacation, it looked more like he was overseeing his sexual trafficking deals than anything else, but that was just another day in the life he led. Many times Brienne had expressed her wishes to use the information about his questionable income to have him locked up, but she did not need Jaime to tell her that doing such a thing would tank their own investigation. If push came to shove, they’d have to find a way to interrogate Littlefinger, far from the eyes of authority.

Jaime could not help but marvel at the elaborate web Baelish had woven. The man had come from nothing; he was a poor fellow from the Fingers, who at a young age was taken in by Hoster Tully and eventually banished from his estate in Riverrun after impregnating Lysa Arryn. He had crawled to King’s Landing afterwards with nothing but the clothes on his back, and built a fortune through all sorts of illicit activities, abusing those he deemed unworthy. Even murder was not beneath him; too many of his mediators had disappeared when their utility was over, dampening Jaime’s hopes of finding Sansa.

 _Where did you take her?_ he asked in his mind, gazing at Baelish’s photograph. _What did you do with your Little Cat?_

* * *

Nearly a month passed without any discoveries worth their time.

It was not unfamiliar to Jaime. He was used to drawn-out research from his time at _Millennium_ , and had learned that new revelations often came at their own pace, when the evidence had ripened and the mind was ready to tie all the pieces together. But he also understood how unusual it was for Brienne having to wait to see results; her life revolved around a machine that she manipulated to get immediate and definite answers. The target of her search was always someone who was alive and well, sitting at home flipping through TV channels, people whose entire lives were stamped in their financial data and records that she had no problem obtaining. Now they were chasing after two ghosts, after mere ideas of people who had existed ten years ago and left no trace behind.

Not that Jaime had managed to get that through her thick head.

Even while they were together, Brienne couldn’t seem to drop her concerns and enjoy the moment, and her nights had become nearly sleepless, chasing nonexistent tracks with her laptop.

That day, the sunset struck intensely, filling the living room with bright orange and making it seem as if they were residing inside a colorful kaleidoscopic box. Jaime watched the bits of dust that hung on the air, lazily drifting under the light. Outside everything was in silence except for the cicadas, echoing through the emptiness of the field around them. Brienne had fallen asleep on top of him on the couch, her warm, naked skin resting against his. It was a testament to how exhausted she must be, considering that during the late afternoon she tended to be restless and absorbed by her work.

The alert for a text message on his phone went off loudly, and she woke with a start. He reached for the device to find Tyrion’s name flickering on the screen, one of his usual conversation starters to see how he was doing. Jaime had to admit that for the past couple of months he had been talking less and less to his brother, focusing only on the immediate, and more recently, having little interest in anything other than being with the geek. It wasn’t as though Tyrion wouldn’t understand; he prided himself in behaving like a horny teenager most of the time.

Jaime ignored the message and dropped the phone nonchalantly. Brienne sat up and rubbed her eyes. The side of her face had marks from lying in the same position for a while, and her blue eyes were bleary, but all Jaime wanted to look at were her small breasts, awash with the light of the fading sun.

“Ready for round two?” he asked her with a grin, running his hands up her thighs. “You took quite a break there.”

“I didn’t—I was just closing my eyes for five minutes,” Brienne protested. “You wake me early in the morning and then expect me to be fully alert during the day.”

“ _I_ wake you in the morning?” He pulled her down and kissed her, long enough for her to melt against his body, while he caressed her lower back. “It seems to me like you’ve grown accustomed to being awoken in a very specific way.”

“Shut up,” she growled, returning the kiss and sinking her tongue into his mouth very slowly. Their lips pressed together again and again, he pulled her closer, and a soft moan escaped her as he bit her lower lip. Jaime had learned well enough what she liked, where and how; it was his own secret exploit to figure out all of her cravings. He was pleased to learn that whatever her mediocre bed companion had done to her was nowhere near enough to satisfy her desires. There was always a coat of novelty in their interactions, an air of surprise in Brienne that he had never witnessed in Cersei. His stepsister had always been forward and blunt, but Brienne needed to be peeled like an onion, led into pleasure the way a horse would be escorted through a flood, as though she were deeply afraid of the indulgence, and Jaime enjoyed every second of it.

He grasped the back of her thighs and spread her legs, placing them at either side of him, and her hips jerked faintly as an instant reaction. As soon as he brushed the tip of his tongue over her neck, she pulled back and stood from the couch with a heavy breath. “No, Jaime, all we do is fuck,” she snapped, pointing towards the board. “We haven't caught a break in weeks. We’ve been looking at this damn wall for days and nothing new is coming up.”

If anything, her anger made her even more enticing to him. Her cheeks were slightly flushed and she was frowning deeply; her chest was heaving with her contained frustration. Jaime rose with a smirk and pressed himself against her back, surrounding her waist with his arms. He made sure she could feel his half-hard cock and nipped at the nape of her neck. The taste of her sweat-covered skin made his head spin. “I have something that’s coming up for you. And all you make me want to do is fuck.”

Brienne struggled in his arms, but he strengthened his hold on her and she slowly gave in. His fingers reached down to her belly and lower, tracing teasing circles over the hair he met there. She sighed in anticipation. “We need to focus, we can't just . . .” His hand traveled further down until two of his fingers settled at her entrance, just to feel her. She was so wet already that he wanted nothing more than to forego all games and take her, mark her, have her, so he did.

In three quick steps he led her towards the tall kitchen counter, pressing her stomach against it. Though she was hesitant at first, she slowly complied and bent forward just enough for him to lift her hips and guide his cock inside her. The loud moan he received in response was approval enough, so he sunk himself fully into her, groaning at the sensation of her walls clutching him, at her moistness and the noises he managed to get out of her lips.

Every thrust made him feel almost intoxicated, like he was flying and crashing against the ground in turn, but he knew Brienne was even more exhilarated. She was louder than he had ever heard her, unrestrained, so he must surely be reaching that one spot that could make her repeat ‘Jaime’ and ‘yes’ and mumble incoherently under her breath. Everything faded when they were like this; it all became distant and inconsequential. It did not matter that they were in Winterfell, that they had been freezing for months, that their work created more questions than answers, that time was passing faster than he liked. The only thing of importance was the way he felt inside her, how her walls grasped him, begging for friction, the warmth that spread like fire where they were joined. Every time he plunged into her, her breasts jumped in response, her noises and the sound of their skins coming together filling his ears like music.

When he reached down to touch between her folds, she became so tight that he groaned and reached his peak, digging his fingers into the skin of her hips. He hoped it would bruise. He wanted her to bear signs of his presence, wanted her for himself and no one else, to claim her and possess her, to discover everything there was to know about her.

The way her body shook and her short moans betrayed her own climax. Her knees weakened and she fell back against his arms, her back glistening with sweat, but Jaime did not want to stop. He pulled out of her and sat her on the counter, placing her legs around his waist to hold her as close as he could. He kissed her with a desperation unbeknownst to him, his lips meeting hers in a clash, his tongue sliding into her mouth, his hand grasping the back of her neck. He wished he could be hard enough to fuck her again, and what little logic was left to him made him wonder what could make him want her with such limitless amounts of lust; how things could continue to intensify in spite of how often they did this.

Jaime pushed all of it aside on behalf of the moment and spread her legs further, receiving a bewildered look for a response. But her cheeks were so flushed with arousal that he simply smirked, looking straight into her eyes as he laid her down on the counter and rested her knees on his shoulders.

Brienne gasped in surprise when his lips met her folds. He reveled in the sight of her dilated pupils when his tongue circled the spot that made her cry out in pleasure and arch her back, bucking against him. His tongue wandered lower and was filled with her bittersweet taste, mixed with his own. Jaime ran his hand over the warm skin on the inside of her thighs; it was so soft that he wondered what other secrets she kept, what other treasures she safely guarded.

He held her hip almost gently as his fingers slid inside her, their movement slow and controlled.

“Jaime,” she whispered, breathless, “Jaime, please . . .”

“Hmm?” he murmured with a grin. “Do you need something?” Her hips began to thrust. She mumbled something, but it was so low he could not make it out. “I can't hear you,” he said coyly.

“F-faster,” Brienne asked, impossibly flushed, “I _want_ . . .”

Deciding she had enough teasing, he sped up his pace. His tongue went back to its task of lapping against her engorged little nub, and a moment later she was coming again, her eyes closed and her head thrown back. Once the pulses of pleasure receded, he removed his hand and made sure to lick his fingers as soon as she gazed at him, open-mouthed. Little drops of sweat ran down between her breasts. He tried to memorize every detail, her scent, her taste, kissed her softly on the lips, heard her whisper his name in a way that made him feel whole.

Jaime should have known then. He should have known that they had begun to color outside the lines, that what had started as the natural solution to their unresolved tension was being derailed into something else. The tenderness that peered through the dark curtains of his guarded self was something foreign, an emotion that had gone well past his defenses to settle inside him every time Brienne’s blue eyes regarded him the way they were now. She rested her forehead against his and smiled, and he knew something must be wrong, because no one had ever believed the best of him, and her gaze was overflowing with something dangerously like affection.

Not that he did anything about it.

* * *

During the next weekend, Jaime dedicated himself to do all of the shopping for the week, leaving Brienne to sleep late. Her hours were still all over the place, and he suspected she was having more caffeine that could possibly be healthy.

He had just arrived at the supermarket in Winter Town, going through the list of what they needed in his head, when his phone started ringing. He walked back outside to take the call, far from the noise of the other customers.

“Brienne?”

“I’ve got it,” she exclaimed, far more loudly than necessary. “All of it.” Her voice was rushed and slightly nervous.

“What are you saying? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, yes, I’m fine. Jaime, I’ve got it, I’m done with it. Arya. I have her.”

He had no idea what she was talking about; when he had snuck out of the house she had been sleeping soundly, and there had been no updates in the past days that could cause such a sudden discovery. “I’ve only been gone for half an hour. What exactly have you been doing?”

“ _Damn it_ , Jaime,” the geek cried in frustration. “I’m telling you I found Arya Stark.”

“Brienne, slow down and explain.” _Has she gone mad?_

“Do you not understand the common tongue?” _So she’s definitely upset_. “You know how we’re looking for Arya Stark? How we’ve been looking for weeks? _I found her_.”

“Why are you so pissed?” Jaime asked, starting to grow irritated by her tone. “Shouldn’t you be happy about it? Are you even sure of this?”

He heard her growling at the other end. Giving up, she finished, “Just hurry up.”

He was puzzled by the turn of events, at the very least. In half an hour he would barely have enough time to get out of bed and brush his teeth, so exactly how Brienne had managed such a task was a wonder. He walked back towards his SUV, deciding to leave the shopping for later. Whatever she found out, she’d be exposed if anyone knew that she had access to that information.

* * *

When Jaime arrived back at the house, the geek was sitting at the kitchen table on her laptop with a stack of documents beside her, drinking her third Red Bull, judging by the empty cans on the counter. _No wonder she’s so cranky_. He took off his coat and sat beside her, not even sure what he should ask first.

“The video. Sansa’s,” Brienne began, saving him the task of initiating the peculiar conversation. “There was something off about the encoding. There was a cycle in the code, very short, but the repetition was evident if you know where to look. I just—I couldn’t read the pattern. I _should_ have known.”

She played a video for him. It had the same angle as the one of Sansa escaping with Littlefinger, but the time tag indicated that it was earlier that night. Brienne had filtered the image so the darker colors seemed a bit clearer, but there was still nothing that caught his attention. When the mark hit 12:03 AM, he thought he saw some movement in the background. It was hard to tell what it was; it might have been a bat in flight or simply a shift in lighting.

The geek paused the video and enhanced it. Though it was mostly darkness, there a pair of bright spots that looked like eyes. She ran a profile analysis application and two figures were detected; one of them matched Arya’s height and the other was well over six feet. Whoever was with her could be easily identified—the individual’s stature was far from average.

“So with _this_ , you found her? I’m guessing you know who’s with her already.”

“Sandor Clegane. He was with the security team in charge of guarding the entrances that night. Maybe he didn’t agree with what happened and turned on the Freys and Boltons.” Brienne turned the screen back to face her. “He took her by force; his hand is over her mouth, and she was struggling.”

“Did you track him? What was his next destination?”

“Saltpans.” She handed him a piece of paper with the backing proof printed on it. “He checked into a sleazy inn three days after the Red Wedding, accompanied by his ‘son’. It’s a bit confusing, but this is a picture of how Arya would look with her hair cut off.”

The young girl’s features were so similar to her father’s that it was hard to tell she was a girl without her long hair. Her unladylike manners would help her conceal her gender, as well.

Brienne continued, “They were there for a week. Their stay was interrupted by a violent brawl in the dining room, which might not be uncommon in such a place, but it seems like too much of a coincidence. Clegane was badly injured; the police found a pool of his blood beside a wall. Three men died. There were no records of any patients like him in the nearby hospitals during that period of time, and he never showed up anywhere else. Most likely he died from his injury.”

Jaime squinted. “What about Arya?”

“She couldn’t have left by plane without a passport. The only ship that was anchored at the bay was the Titan’s Daughter, a trader from Braavos. Its only route that entire month was between those two cities. The day after the shooting, the crew of the ship increased by one passenger. A ten-year-old boy.”

“Shit, Brienne,” he mumbled, disbelieving of the amount of information she had gathered in such a short time. Every time he thought he knew what she was capable of, she outran him and all of his methods. He had always felt so confident about his skills, and though he was better at handling people, Brienne’s way of collecting information had no match. Jaime wasn’t sure whether he felt more admiration or jealousy.

“Can you confirm she’s still in Braavos?”

“There would be no better place for her to stay. Ships come and go all the time, and the island is a place where people don’t ask too many questions unless they’re looking for trouble.” She closed the laptop. “I’ll spend the rest of the day searching their databases for anyone who matches her current age and features.”

“Now, will you tell me why you’re so pissed about this?” he pushed. “We’ve been stranded for a long time, and this is the closest we’ve come to either of the girls.”

“That’s the point,” Brienne replied, standing and walking over to the board, putting up the recently printed documents. “We’ve had this damn tape of Sansa for almost two months, and I’ve just been sitting on it, doing _nothing_. I should have seen this. It was so evident, the cycle in the encoding would have never been cut off that way unless there was something more in the video. This is what I do, and I couldn’t make the connection.”

He shook his head. “This happens all the time in research. Don’t blame yourself, it’s no good.”

“Myself?” She glared at him. “I told you all we’ve been doing is fucking, instead of doing the work,” she roared, throwing her hands up. “This is not why I came to Winterfell.”

“What in seven hells are you talking about? You’ve been working like a maniac on that thing, don’t put this on me.”

“I’m not.” She sighed and slumped down on the couch. “It’s—it’s _this_ , Jaime, it’s distracting. To you, to me.”

“That’s a new one,” he told her, laughing sardonically. “I’m _distracting_.”

She bit her lip and remained silent. The way she looked at him told him that she was already regretting her words, but he was far too experienced to take them to heart.

“Come here,” Jaime said in a tone that allowed no protest.

Her gaze became challenging. _You come here_ , it said. But he was not the one to screw up this time, and he would not be the one to give into her wishes. Her failures belonged to her and her alone, even if Jaime did not really consider them failures. There were ideas that were far too obscure to come to mind without a certain time to develop. Brienne still had much to learn.

But she did come to him, in the end.

* * *

Jaime could hardly believe his eyes when he saw Brienne’s shape moving about the bedroom in the light of dawn the next morning. The window was open and the air was chilly, but she did not seem to acknowledge it, wearing a tank top and a loose pair of cargo pants. There was a half-full travel bag on her side of the bed.

“What are you doing?” he asked, clearing his throat and shielding his eyes from the light. “It’s so early, why are you up?”

“You got an e-mail from Tycho Nestoris with Arya Stark’s profile.”

“What . . . _what_?”

She sighed. “I wrote to him on your behalf. He’s good friends with your father, the gods know that all rich people hang in the same circles.” The geek threw a new piece of clothing inside the bag and closed the zipper. “I sent him a picture of Arya, using software to age her up and shorten her hair. She’s old enough to have a bank account of her own, and the Iron Bank has a monopoly over Braavos.”

Jaime sprung into a sitting position with a frown. “Brienne, that’s a terrible move. I’m sure he knows it’s Arya you’re looking for now. You’re putting her in danger.”

“Nestoris owes a few favors to your father. He would never get involved in the situation knowing that you’re Tywin Lannister’s son.” She threw the bag over her shoulder and picked up her cell phone from the bedside table.

“Just give me a chance to shower and I’ll be right out.”

“No,” she replied firmly, and Jaime thought he had never seen such resolve in her. “I’m the one leaving alone this time.”


	15. Attitude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: [Lacuna Coil - Swamped](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cMDI2G9CMsY) | [Lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/lacunacoil/swamped.html) | Beta'ed by [YellowDelaney](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowDelaney/pseuds/YellowDelaney)

Chapter 15: Attitude

_Much stronger boys in her class soon learned that it could be quite unpleasant to fight with that skinny girl. Unlike other girls in the class, she never backed down, and she would not for a second hesitate to use her fists or any other weapon at hand to protect herself. She went around with the attitude that she would rather be beaten to death than take any shit._

* * *

Braavos was much smaller than King’s Landing. It smelled strongly of fish and so far, Brienne could sort the inhabitants in three groups: big, muscular sailors covered in tattoos who were drunk more often than not, hard-working humble women who were likely their wives, and common citizens with a tendency to look suspicious. This was, after all, the refuge of travelers who wished to leave their past behind them and start from scratch.

Brienne was grateful that Jaime had agreed to let her go without giving her as much trouble as she’d expected. The tiebreaker in the argument had been something quite simple—Arya would never trust a Lannister, especially after hiding her identity for over a decade. The task of obtaining information from her would be hard enough without that baggage, and either way, some time apart felt like a relief to the push and pull between her and Jaime, which had begun to wear her out.

As she approached her modest inn by the Ragman’s Harbor, she decided to take a detour to visit the Happy Port, a bar frequented by the fishermen for both the drinks and the women that ran it. It was little more than a brothel, so Brienne was sure if there was information to be had, she’d find it there.

“My, are you tall,” a rather buxom, jovial woman told her with a laugh, in the common tongue, when Brienne entered. The place was full; it was nearing midnight, and everyone seemed to be having a good time. “I’m Merry, I’ll be your waitress tonight. Watch out for these Braavosi; they’d kill to wrestle with someone like you, in and out of the bedroom. Can I get you a table?”

“Yes, please.” It was a relief to finally find someone she could exchange coherent words with. Brienne’s Braavosi was limited to the most basic words, and her pronunciation left much to be desired.

“What would you like to drink?” the waitress asked once Brienne had settled in a small corner table.

“A beer, please.”

“Coming right up.”

The Happy Port had a lot of bustle and chat. Many sailors came and went, enjoying their night with beers in their hands. Two or three prostitutes sat with a large group of men, but Brienne could not be sure whether they were working or not. The group seemed to be deep in conversation, so the sailors might be only locals who brought the latest news to the women at the bar, since they rarely left the establishment. There was so much noise that Brienne had a hard time hearing herself think.

Merry soon returned with a large jug of beer in her hand. She placed it on the table with a smile and turned to leave.

“Wait,” Brienne interjected, loudly enough to be heard over the crowd. “There’s something else. I’ve been told there’s a young woman who frequents this bar. She works in Brusco’s store and sells seafood to the restaurants along the port.”

“Oh, you mean Cat?” Merry asked with a lopsided grin. “That girl has definite talent as a saleswoman, and she’s fierce, too. I’ve been asking her to work here forever, but she’ll have none of it.”

“Yes, Cat.” Brienne nodded. “Do you know where I could find her at this time?”

“She works mostly during the early morning, but on some nights she likes to spar with the bravos in the Spotted Cellar.”

“Spar?”

“Yes, she practices martial arts. She’s half a boy, that one, and all Braavosi men know their fighting. Inner strength and all that.”

Brienne smiled. “Thank you for the information.”

“Will you want anything else?”

“I won't, but here.” She handed Merry a hundred-dragon bill. It was a bit excessive, but the woman could never know how priceless the exchange had been for Brienne’s search. “I really appreciate it.”

The waitress laughed and shrugged it off. “Glad to be of service.”

* * *

The first night, Brienne searched the place high and low for Arya, but she did not make an appearance. It was unlikely that the girl was hiding, taking into consideration the small size of the Spotted Cellar.

By the fifth night, Brienne was growing tired of waiting, and started thinking that perhaps the waitress had taken her for a fool. During three of those nights, she had been asked to spar with the fighters, and she’d had at least two indecent proposals according to her dictionary app. The Braavosi were definitely very different from the Westerosi in their customs and tastes; the trip was a whole new experience for Brienne. Other than King’s Landing and Tarth, she had only ever visited the places that were part of the investigation. It was not as though she afford a luxury like travel unless it was through her expense account.

She had believed that being away from Winterfell would feel like getting some fresh air, but it was much of the opposite. She couldn’t have guessed how accustomed she’d grown to the isolation of the little house, the peaceful sounds that came from the forest, the tranquility of the environment that surrounded them, and even the howling of the wolves at night.

Most of all, she never imagined that a cold bed could be so lonely. She missed the way Jaime wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her shoulder, the way his fingernails scratched her side and gave her goosebumps, his scent on her pillow, the softness of his hair between her fingers. They had only been apart a few days and she already missed all of it, missed the way he took her back into bed as soon as he saw she was awake, how he touched her everywhere, kissed her everywhere.

Deep down she wished she’d left on better terms, that she had not been so hard on Jaime about her findings of Arya’s location, but sometimes Brienne felt like all the traces of her former self disappeared behind the translucent curtain of their relationship. Every time Jaime entered her she felt complete, and then he’d leave behind a bottomless pit, an almost tangible void.

It was no wonder that she was scared of the possibilities. Jaime was not a thing to look at from afar, not anymore. He was in her mind, in her dreams, in her life, he was all around her and inside as well; he was on top of her in her fantasies, taking her roughly and sweetly and filling every inch of her with the same enthusiasm he put into teasing her to make her smile and blush. He was in the atmosphere, and he was as likely to give her life as to poison her lungs.

Hunt had been about something else. It had been about tension release, about human contact, about curiosity, and most of all it had been a way for Brienne to try and discover who she could be in the face of a foreign presence. But there had always been a barrier between them, an evident disassociation, a lack of synchronicity. They were strangers in separate worlds, visiting each other every once in a while, separate presences in a wide universe. Jaime was beside her in her planet; they shared a single wavelength and could see eye to eye beyond her expectations. Perhaps it would be easier if it were only sex, if they could confine what had developed to the space of a bed, but it had started to overflow so swiftly that by the time she had realized it, it was too late.

He had not called her so far, and she suspected he was trying to give her space. She had only written him an e-mail to tell him that she had arrived safely at the island, and that she’d inform him of her departure date once she had made any progress.

Like a sign from the gods, it was the seventh night when Brienne finally caught sight of Arya Stark in the Spotted Cellar, during the evening of open sparring sessions. Arya arrived with her trainer, a slender, bald man with a long nose. When she came in, he gave her some instructions in Braavosi, and she agreed to a match with a man much taller than her.

Arya was slim and small, with brown hair as short as Brienne’s. Her stature made her seem like she was sixteen, instead of her twenty years of age. Her gray eyes were cold and distant, which was no wonder, considering they’d seen more than anyone should in a lifetime. Her resemblance to the pictures of Ned Stark’s sister, Lyanna, was uncanny—she definitely took after the Stark side of the family, unlike Sansa.

The young girl was skinny, but what she lacked in size, she compensated with speed and technique. Even when Arya took a hit, she gave back twice as she got, and soon her opponent was on the ground and she had his arm wrapped around his back.

The match was resolved in her favor, and just as she was about to retire to the lockers, Brienne caught up with her. “Cat?” she asked, extending her hand for a shake. “My name is Brienne Tarth. I was wondering if I could talk to you about something.”

Arya’s gaze was as mistrustful as Brienne had ever seen, but there was also a bit of surprise in the way she raised her eyebrows. “You speak the common tongue. Are you Westerosi?” It was evident that she had been living in Braavos for a long time, because her accent had thickened, though it was not too noticeable.

Brienne pulled back her hand, which had been left hanging unceremoniously. “Yes. I'm from Tarth.”

“Why do you want to talk to me?” Arya asked bluntly, resuming her walk. Brienne trailed behind her, each of her steps counting as two or three of the girl’s.

“It's about your sister.”

Her expression went blank. “I don't have a sister.”

“Yes. Cat doesn't have a sister.”

Arya’s lips twisted, and Brienne knew she’d piqued her interest at last. She threw her gym bag over her shoulder and put on a gray jacket, drawing a curious glance from Brienne, since the night was quite warm and humid. “The Braavosi would take it as a challenge if I went to the streets dressed like this,” she mumbled, leading the way outside and pointing at the t-shirt of her martial team before zipping up. “They have all sorts of stupid customs.”

The place Arya chose for the conversation was none other than the House of Black and White, an ancient temple where all the gods were worshipped, and the only one left on the island. The doors were beautiful, delicately carved from ebony and weirwood, and the silence inside was overwhelming. There were only a couple of people praying in the entirety of the spacious room, sitting on the long benches.

Arya led her down some stairs into a room that seemed to be meant for storage, but there was a bed in a corner. _Is this her bedroom?_ Brienne was looking around the room when she felt the cold touch of a knife against the skin of her neck. “Who are you really, and why did you come here looking for me?” Arya asked in a hostile tone.

Brienne closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, focusing all her efforts in not moving an inch. She had always been more trustful than she should with women. “Your great-uncle, Brynden Tully, hired me to research the Red Wedding. He wanted me to find your sister Sansa, but instead I found you,” she explained slowly.

“The Blackfish?”

“Yes. I know that you left the Twins with Sandor Clegane, unconscious, and that he took you to Saltpans.”

Arya’s voice was as cold as ever. “What exactly do you want from me?”

“To take you home,” Brienne assured her, getting nervous with the weapon so close to her neck. “Will you please drop that? I didn’t come here to hurt you, I swear.”

Arya frowned and stepped back, though she still kept the knife pointed in Brienne’s direction. Brienne took a deep breath and sat on a chair by the door, wondering how the girl had access to such a bleak room. “Your uncle looked for you for years,” she continued, looking straight into her gray eyes. “Until he thought he’d found you dead in King’s Landing six years ago. Your DNA records were traded for Jeyne Poole’s.”

“Jeyne?”

“Yes. Sansa's friend . . . She left the Twins before the shooting, all by herself. Then she went missing for years and turned up dead in the capital. She was working for Petyr Baelish.”

Arya’s eyes shot open at the mention of his name. “That bastard,” she muttered angrily. “He was a fucking weirdo, always giving Sansa these sick looks. It was creepy.”

“We think Baelish might have Sansa.”

“ _We_?” Arya squinted.

“I . . .” As far as Brienne could tell, her companion had a talent to discern truth from lie. She had to be honest if she expected the same from the young Stark. “Jaime Lannister is also working with me, trying to find Sansa and get her home safely.”

“Fuck the Lannisters.” Arya crossed her arms over chest and headed to the window, turning her back on Brienne. “You need to leave.”

Brienne shook her head. “No, I swear to you, he’s only trying to help. Your own uncle hired him. You trust the Blackfish, don’t you?”

Arya went quiet for a moment, considering the question. The silence made Brienne uncomfortable—in fact, the girl’s very presence did. There was something not quite right about her, like she had lost all that was left of her innocence and was now only a hard shell of the girl who had been loved by her parents and raised to be kind and honorable by the Starks.

“I don't see why he’d have a reason to hurt us.”

“Your brothers are under his care, and they are thriving,” Brienne replied, and Arya turned to look at her, her eyes lighting up slightly.

“Bran and Rickon?” She bit her lip. “How . . . How are they?”

“They’re in boarding school in Skagos, and they love it. Bran will be graduating this year and heading to college.” She pulled a picture of both of them and the Blackfish out of her pocket and showed it to her. “Arya, come back with me. Your uncle is eager to see you and to give you all that is rightfully yours.”

She immediately shook her head and looked away with a frown. Her response was angry and fell heavily on Brienne’s shoulders. “No. That’s not who I am anymore. This is my home. This is what I chose. I haven’t been Arya in years, and I don’t want to be.”

It pained Brienne to see such a young girl so detached from her past. She would give anything to have someone who cared about her, someone who would search after her trail, trying to get her back home. But the truth was that Brienne was the Jeyne Poole of the story. There was no one who’d know of her existence, no one to report her missing, to bring her home.

“You should be glad you have a family,” she whispered in spite of herself. “Brothers who surely miss you every day. An uncle would leave no stone unturned to get you back.” She stood from her chair and headed for the door, but stopped along the way. “Was it you who killed those Freys in Riverrun? The one who sent the message to the Blackfish?” she inquired, trying one last approach.

“No. I haven’t left Braavos since I came here. But if any Freys died, they had it coming.”

Arya tried to hand her back the picture, but Brienne shook her head. “Keep it.”

As she turned to leave, Arya called out to her, “Brienne?”

“Yes?”

“Have you told the Blackfish you’ve found me? Does anyone know?”

“Only Jaime and me.”

Once more, the young woman bit her lip. “Will you keep my secret?”

“From your uncle?”

“Yes. From him. From everyone.”

Brienne’s mind raced back to her teenage years, to all the times she felt like her life was not her own. The pressure of having her assets controlled by the State because she was deemed mentally incapable to do it herself, her psychological evaluations, her time under the care of physicians and researchers who found her gift a curious thing. Every day that she’d felt like a rare species in a zoo, powerless to decide.

“We will keep it,” she promised at last. “Do you know where Sansa might be?”

“No.”

“Would you tell me if you did?”

Arya smirked. “No.”

* * *

Having the geek all the way in Braavos was definitely making things harder for Jaime.

He had not realized how much he had come to rely on her computer to get them all sorts of information with a unique promptness. Names, locations, everything was well within the reach of Brienne’s fingertips, so long as they knew exactly what they were looking for. Now that she was handling the situation with Arya Stark, it fell on him to focus on other loose ends that could get them results. Unable to get any more clues about Sansa’s path, the one part of the investigation that he could keep exploring were the missing girls from the north.

The last conclusions he and Brienne had drawn were that somehow, while living in King’s Landing with her father, Sansa had discovered Littlefinger’s side business and the women that had ended up dead as a result. It explained why Baelish used the opportunity of being summoned by Olenna to the Twins, as well as the shooting, to take control of Sansa and keep her quiet. Even the puzzle piece of his undying love for Catelyn Stark fit nicely—it was the one thing that would keep the cunning man from killing the young redhead on the spot.

Figuring out where he had taken Sansa was another story. Baelish had arrived at the Eyrie after his visit to the Twins, and he had been alone. That meant that he must have dropped Sansa under someone else’s care, someone he truly trusted, but that was as far as the road went.

If Jaime could discover where the missing girls had been taken and what the numbers beside each name meant, it would lead him to Littlefinger’s contact in the north, which was the only way to get answers at this point. So, once the geek had walked out the door barely saying goodbye, he had taken down everything they had on the wall and replaced it with a map of the north.

Using the police reports, Jaime had placed a pin on each of the girl’s locations at the time they went missing, as well as the area where Red Jeyne’s body was found in Long Lake. She was the only girl whose family got any closure; all of the other women simply vanished.

Helicent had been eighteen years old, a humble girl who worked as a maid for one of the prominent families at Hornwood since a young age. The last time she was seen, she was heading home from school in the middle of one of the worst snowstorms in the north, while it was still winter. Her disappearance had been attributed to the weather—accidents during storms happened all the time—and it had occurred in 2001, half a year after the discovery of Red Jeyne’s body.

Jez and Willow were staying in an old cabin near Long Lake when they were taken in 2002, according to a group of residents from the area. They’d remained there for at least six months before their disappearance. Both of them were under Baelish’s employment, as evidenced by their tattoos, and judging by their timing and location, they had been running from him since they decided to leave the brothel in King’s Landing.

Maude’s case was the only odd one out. Instead of the north, she went missing from Seagard in 2003, and it was the last case in Jaime and Brienne’s records. Given the date of the crime, it was very likely that Baelish was in the area when the girl disappeared, because the Red Wedding had taken place only a couple of weeks afterwards. The twenty-year old had been working for a long time as a secretary in Roose Bolton’s company, but that was not unusual. It was common knowledge that the Boltons and the Freys had struck an association of their businesses, and all of Seagard revolved around their factories.

That was as far as Jaime’s investigation had gotten. After putting together a complete profile of each of the girls to find their similarities, he was left quite puzzled by the result. Other than their age and the fact that they’d worked for Littlefinger, they had little in common. Some were far more educated than others, they had different social and economic profiles, and their physical features varied in skin color, hair color and body type, which suggested that they might not have been victims of a serial killer or a sexual predator, since they tended to stick to a specific pattern.

They could not disregard the idea completely, however. Maude Hill had filed a report for rape three weeks before her disappearance, but she refused to let the police gather a kit to help them identify the offender. It was not uncommon for women to avoid the exam, but the officer who attended the case had made an observation that the girl’s panic was typical in cases where the person knew their attacker and refused to identify them for fear of retaliation.

The afternoon was dying by the time Jaime put away the files of all the girls, and decided to finish his elaborate map by adding the final piece. He dragged red string from one pin to another to create a range of places where their suspect was most likely located, excluding Maude due to the distance between her and the rest of the women.

The north had always been such a remote place that not too many cities had developed, and those that existed were almost as small as Winterfell. It was infertile land, and the living conditions were not easy, so the population sought to establish themselves in warmer places like the south, as far as Dorne or in the Westerlands. That was how, looking at the area of interest, Jaime realized that the only populated place that had easy access to all of the pins, at the center of it all, was the Dreadfort.

The Dreadfort was a settlement; it was not large enough to be a city, but not small enough to be called a town. It was mainly composed of the Bolton estate, one of the biggest in all of Westeros, nearly as big as Casterly Rock. A number of barns and large deposits surrounded it, used as storage for Bolton’s mostly illegal merchandise, and a few miles from the estate, there was a town slightly bigger than Winter Town. It was a place for the Bolton Enterprises employees to settle and make their living, while the heads of the families worked at their most important plant.

Jaime frantically flipped through the pages of the profiles that Brienne had reprinted after they were stolen from the house. She had done it as a precaution, even though he had insisted that Bolton and Frey were not suspects in the investigation anymore. But that was before things took a turn and he and Brienne decided to focus on the women instead of Sansa herself.

He looked through Roose Bolton’s profile, where Brienne had attached a copy of his flight ticket during the week he’d attended the Red Wedding. He had arrived only three days before the event, so the timeline did not work with Maude Hill’s disappearance at Seagard. But that was not enough reason to fully discard the idea—with all of his business centered in that city, it was likely that Bolton traveled there very often. What Jaime truly needed were Bolton Enterprises’ account balances, so he could cross-check the dates of Roose Bolton’s business trips with two dates: the date of Maude’s rape, and her disappearance.

Jaime’s first reaction was to pick up the phone to call Brienne, knowing that she would probably have that information ready for him in two hours at the most, but then he remembered that they had not talked since she had departed for Braavos. Tired of having to constantly push her, he had decided to give her time to get her ideas together before making any personal calls.

But this was work.

When Jaime checked his phone, he realized he had a message from her in his chat app. He had been so focused on the map that he hadn’t heard it. It wasn’t like he had been expecting it; her phone plan was limited to Westeros, so on her trip she would be dependent on her inn’s Wi-Fi connection.

` _Are you busy? I need to talk to you._ `

_That sounds serious_. Since when did she ask permission to call him? The long distance thing was definitely not helping out with whatever was going on between them. It was making things awkward and full of thought, and he didn’t want to feel like he was walking on eggshells with her.

`Are you going to introduce a request for sexting?` he wrote.

` _You wish._ `

Jaime laughed and pressed the call button. She picked up immediately. “You’re extremely boring, do you know that?” he told her cheekily.

“That must be why you keep sneaking into my bedroom.” Brienne sighed heavily. “Jaime, I have to tell you something about Arya.”

“Did you find her?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“You did? When are you two coming back?”

“We’re not.”

He paused. “What do you mean?”

“I’m coming, but . . . she’s not. She doesn’t want to. She also made me promise we won’t tell anyone that we found her, or where.” Everything about Brienne’s tone suggested that she had been very hesitant about telling him. And with good reason—that threw half of their plans over the board. Even if they didn’t manage to find Sansa, bringing Arya home would make the investigation successful. If the girl refused to come to Winterfell, and they could not even tell the Blackfish that she was alive and well, it meant that all of their hours searching for her had gone to waste. Not to mention the amount of additional pressure it meant to find her older sister. “I tried, I really did,” Brienne continued. “But she doesn’t want to go back to her old life. And I can’t force her.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Jaime assured her with a confidence he wasn’t sure he felt. He could not blame her. They had learned that Arya was a difficult girl, very set in her ideas, and running away from Westeros as a form of protection made sense after witnessing such violent deaths firsthand. “When are you due back?”

“The day after tomorrow. It’s the earliest flight.”

“All right.”

“Is that disappointment?” she replied with an amused tone.

“I think I can deal with your absence for a while, geek. I’ve already been alone for a week, haven’t I? I’ll use the opportunity to smoke every pack of cigarettes that comes my way.” That was a blatant lie; he hadn’t smoked a cigarette since she’d left. Brienne’s dictatorial bane of smoking in the house had progressively made him drop the habit. Weeks earlier, he had dared smoke one after their usual tussling in the sheets. She had wordlessly thrown the rest down the toilet and kept him out of her bedroom for the rest of the weekend as punishment.

“Whatever you say.”

“I need to consult with you on something,” Jaime remembered, gazing at the map spread on the wall. “It’s about Roose Bolton.”

“What is it?” Brienne asked.

“I have a suspicion that he might be involved in the disappearances of all those girls. I triangulated the positions of all the addresses and the Dreadfort is a very centric location to consider, but I need to cross-check some dates with Roose Bolton’s business trips.”

Before he could finish, Brienne spoke, “I’ll send you all the records of Bolton Enterprises for the last twenty years in half an hour.” _Shit_. Jaime had to make a mental note never to get on the geek’s bad side. “Is that all?”

“It is.”

Neither of them added anything else, and Jaime wished that he could find the words to let her know how fucking empty the bed felt without her. During the late night he kept wondering if overseas, in Braavos, she was feeling the same way. Though they had barely been apart for a week, they spent all hours of the day together, be it for work or far better things. The house felt very still and quiet without her.

“Good night, Jaime,” Brienne told him softly.

He smiled. “Night, Brienne. See you soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This is the map Jaime used during this chapter](http://i.imgur.com/vOp0p86.jpg).


	16. Burst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: [Ramin Djawadi - Don't Die with a Clean Sword](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9g-IfXHMgQM) | Beta'ed by [YellowDelaney](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowDelaney/pseuds/YellowDelaney)

Chapter 16: Burst

_What she had realized was that love was that moment when your heart was about to burst._

* * *

The morning of Brienne’s flight was the coldest Jaime could recall of the past month. Though there was no snow to accompany the chilly weather, the first hours of the day were filled with the sound of a steady, heavy rain. The wolves were quiet, for once, and the darkness that enveloped the house made it hard for Jaime to get out of bed at his usual time.

He lazily made breakfast while reviewing the documents he’d printed late at night. Brienne had kept her promise and promptly sent him the financial records of Bolton Enterprises, and he had matched Roose Bolton’s business trips to most of the locations of the missing girls from the north.

Grey Jeyne had been the first victim, and the date of her disappearance had matched that of an inauguration gala for a new branch of Bolton Enterprises in White Harbor. The most important figures of the company had been present, so any of them could have been guilty of the crime, but the next abductions seemed too coincidental. Bolton was present at the Karstarks’ party when Red Jeyne went missing, and he was at a conference in Hornwood when Helicent was the victim in 2001.

The records were no use when it came to Jez and Willow’s case. During that date range, Bolton could not be placed in the Dreadfort—which would have been a strategic location to commit the murders and bury the women—but there were no records that indicated he was away, either. What Jaime _did_ know was that no other notable employees of Bolton Enterprises were at Karhold or Hornwood, so all things considered, Roose Bolton was as good a suspect as he had identified so far. Jaime had also met Bolton personally in various opportunities through LanCorp, and his impression was that he was a calculating man who was utterly focused in getting his way. The treacherous nature and careful planning of the Red Wedding was proof of that, so Jaime wouldn’t put it past the man to be capable of violence against women, and it would certainly explain how the crimes had gone unnoticed for so long.

Jaime stared at the note on the board that contained Sansa’s code, still clueless about the meaning of the numbers beside each name and what the ‘K’ stood for. He kept coming close to figuring out what happened, retracing Bolton’s steps from over a decade ago, only to bump against an obstacle at each turn. The businessman had not been present in Seagard during Maude Hill’s rape or her disappearance like Jaime had previously speculated.

He had discussed it with Brienne over the phone at length very early, before she had jumped on her flight to White Harbor and had to hang up the phone for takeoff. Her only suggestion had been looking into the employees who were close to Maude Hill, those who might have developed an interest in her and raped her if she had refused their advances.

Jaime squinted while looking at Roose Bolton’s picture on the board. _You might have killed them all except this last one_ , he thought, leaning back against the chair and sighing. _We might have gotten them mixed together_. If they could just know exactly how Sansa had obtained the list, it would be much easier to know which girls were truly connected with each other when it came to their disappearances, and if the non-tattooed ones bore any relation to Littlefinger.

He spread the photos of all five women on the table before him, staring intently and knowing by heart where and when each of them had gone missing. Jaime’s mind painted a picture of each case, a series of images of what they had all been doing when they were taken: Red Jeyne having fun at the Karstarks’ party, Grey Jeyne silently heading home, Maude, terrified, most likely assaulted by the same man who had raped her weeks earlier. All of them haunted his mind, whispering their despair into his ear and begging him to find them. He was hardly able to imagine what it would be like if a person he loved went missing and was still in the wind a decade later, as if they had never existed. Somehow the thought of locating the women’s bodies and contacting their families felt like it might offer some comfort through closure. Disappearance would then become murder, but at least it would be something real, something tangible, instead of having every possibility exist at once. He and Brienne knew the sensation well enough now, after so many months chasing Sansa’s shadow, asking the tormenting questions of where, how, why, and they had not even truly known her.

His cellphone buzzed on the table, pulling him out of his thoughts. It was a text from Brienne: `Check your e-mail right now`.

Jaime complied. There was a new e-mail in his inbox, titled ‘Seagard employees’. He had asked Brienne for a list of names of those employees closest to Maude Hill in the Seagard office, without a lot of hope that she’d have a way to figure it out. As it turned out, she had managed to access an old database of their webmail. Though it was not such a common way to communicate in the office back then, they might get some idea of her close co-workers by looking through the young woman’s contacts.

` **Brienne Tarth** `  
`To: Jaime Lannister`  
`10 minutes ago`

`I went through Maude’s inbox at Bolton Enterprises. There was personal correspondence with two girls from her floor whom she trusted. In one of the e-mails Maude told them that the boys had been making unwelcome advances and becoming violent. I don’t know who ‘the boys’ are, but they did exchange two names: Yellow Dick and Damon. They were low-level employees, childhood acquaintances of Bolton’s son Ramsay Snow.`

`I dug some info about Yellow Dick. A week after the rape, he was found dead in his apartment. Someone cut his cock off and shoved it in his mouth. I’m guessing Damon or Ramsay might have sought retaliation, thinking it was Maude who did it as a comeback for her rape. But Ramsay wasn’t at Seagard during the rape or Maude’s disappearance, which rules him out. Damon was living at the Dreadfort during all the other murders, so he might have had access to the locations and to some of the events.`

`I thought you might also want to know that a woman called Rowan, one of Maude’s friends, was found guilty of Yellow Dick’s death. I guess she was protective enough to stand up for her friend.`

`See you tonight.`

`PS: Please don’t smoke in the living room. It will still stink when I get home.`

Jaime smiled at the last line and hit the reply button.

`**To: Brienne Tarth**`

`Thanks for the info. I’ll definitely be looking at Damon, though I still like Roose Bolton for this. Too many coincidences. Maybe Damon is one of his thugs. We also need to figure out how this connects to Littlefinger.`

`PS: I’ll smoke an entire pack if it pleases me. You’ve been away too long. I have been emancipated from your iron fist.`

She sent him a single text in response: `Good luck getting lucky`.

With a snort, Jaime printed the new information, including Damon’s profile, which she’d sent as an attachment. After stretching in his chair, he set out to analyze the map all over again, cross-checking all dates and locations with the new suspect’s activity and his possible connections with Roose Bolton.

It was going to be a long afternoon.

* * *

The bed was soft and welcoming, as comfortable as ever, and the white sheets danced to the tune set by the light breeze that flowed through the window. The sunlight warmed Jaime’s skin pleasantly, reminding him of his childhood days at the beach in Casterly Rock.

Her skin tasted like sweat, and sex, and red wine all at once as he kissed her shoulder. The light that spilled into the bedroom brightened the lines of her neck, highlighting that perfect spot that he knew so well. The sheet slid down slightly, and Jaime smiled as he kissed her ear, his fingertips tracing slow circles around her belly.

She turned her head and, though her face was shrouded in darkness, he caught a glimpse of her blue eyes. It was all he could see. It would be impossible to describe the joy of falling asleep to the sight of those two orbs, like sapphires glinting against firelight on a cold night.

His gaze traveled down to her shoulder blade, where a shapeless black mark had taken refuge upon her flesh. As the stain shifted, it turned into a pair of antlers, but then they twisted and turned and became branches of a tree, expanding all over her back. She grunted in pain—he knew it well, Jaime had touched her so, licked her, tasted her, he knew what hurt and what was pleasant for her, this was _pain_ she was feeling—

One of the thickest branches came around her neck and began to choke her, and his ears were invaded by her fraught gasps. He tried to move, but all he could do was sit there, his voice fading to nothing as he called out her name again and again. When he looked down at his hands, he realized they were tightly bound, and a force greater than him was pulling him away, far from the bed they shared.

When he looked back at her, with her bright blue eyes and hair the color of straw, Jaime realized she was crying. Then came the sound of glass shattering, and her lips turned up into a smile, but her eyes were now green, her body slight, her long blonde hair down to her waist, every inch of his past making his way into the space that belonged to Brienne.

Laughter left Cersei’s lips, feminine and modest, that laughter that existed only to please and compliment. She was every bit as beautiful as Jaime remembered her, shining and golden, loathsome and unattainable. Looking upon her face brought back the flashbacks of a bitter past—an intense love that felt as urgent as air, a game of hideouts and concealment, the birth of all his children, betrayal and rejection, and ultimately, a mask dropping piece by piece like falling leaves in autumn.

A thunder boomed and every branch of the tattoo became a snake the color of jade, hissing at him, their fangs dripping with venom.

“Jaime,” Brienne whispered into his ear, pleading, desperate. “Help me.”

He shook his head, wondering where she was, why he could not see her. “Where are you?”

His bare feet started to feel wet, and when he looked down, he saw that the room was flooding in rushed waves. Jaime tried to swim away, to follow the voice, but the water was coming too fast. In the blink of an eye he was submerged underwater, his gasps for air turning into bubbles around him.

When he looked up towards the surface, he could only see the sun far away, its rays peering through the sea. In the circle of the light, as though it were a distant vision, appeared the shadow of a stag with its antlers pointed to the sky. A second later there was a hand coming through the water and he was pulled out in a single shove, the air filling his lungs with a violence that almost made him choke.

Jaime woke with a start, barely realizing that it had all been a dream, and one of his strangest at that. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes, wondering when he had fallen asleep on the couch. Damon’s file sat on his chest. He must have been more tired than he thought, because when he gazed out the window, there was only darkness. The rain had intensified as well; the crack of thunder pierced his ears, but it did not conceal a very different kind of noise in the background, akin to a car backfiring or worse yet—a gunshot.

He rushed to the table beside the front door and pulled out the gun, releasing the safety and moving to stand next to the entrance. Jaime’s only advantage was that every light in the house was off, so his eyes quickly adapted to the darkness. Jaime waited and waited, trying to make out what was happening outside. Through the sound of the fat droplets hitting the ground in a fury came the barking of dogs; the kind of barking he’d heard on the night he and Brienne had a bloody wolf head delivered to their living room.

As swiftly as he could, he pulled his cellphone out of his pocket, recalling the safety measures Brienne had lectured him on. First he texted a very simple message to the Blackfish, who was closest to his location: `Suspicious noise outside. Stay indoors.`

Then he called Brienne. He needed her to acknowledge the information personally, in case she arrived at Winterfell and there was truly something going on. The phone rang once, twice, thrice, but there was no reply. When he tried again, it went straight to voicemail. _Shit_. She had not told him that she’d arrived at White Harbor yet, so he could only assume that she was still on her way there. She would be safe.

Even so, he left her a message. “Geek, I just heard a noise outside. Might be a gunshot. The dogs went crazy like the last time. I’m pretty sure it came from Farlen’s house, I’m gonna check. If you’re close, stay in Winter Town until I call you back.” _Beep_.

Jaime took a deep breath and walked outside into the rain.

* * *

After an entire day sitting inside a plane, Brienne knew that making the trip from Braavos to Winterfell in a single day was not a good idea. Getting off the plane at the Sentinel Airport was a breath of fresh air, especially because her battery had died in the middle of the flight, so she had been quite idle during the afternoon, which was more than enough to make her restless.

Torrhen’s Square was not a busy city, so even at the airport most of the restaurants were closed by then. With a sigh and a growling stomach, she slumped down on one of the long benches beside a wall socket to charge her cell phone, keeping it off so it would be done as quickly as possible.

In the meantime she got on her laptop and tried to clear some of the thoughts that had gathered in her mind as soon as she’d sent Jaime the latest e-mail about Maude Hill. Every step they took made her feel both closer and further from solving the mystery of all the women’s abductions; they kept finding more suspects, but nothing was truly resolved. In her opinion, everything was pointing to Damon, but it was essential to establish a connection with Petyr Baelish. The only existent one was a long shot: Damon was friends with Ramsay Snow, Roose Bolton’s illegitimate son, and Bolton surely had business with Baelish, like every dirty kingpin in Westeros. But that did not explain why Baelish would send his prostitutes to Damon, and the latter only had a police record for drug trafficking, not for assault or sex-related crimes.

Brienne frowned in concentration, thinking of the missing link. She opened the file with Roose Bolton’s basic information and focused on what she knew about his son— _Ramsay Snow, thirty years old, middle school dropout_. Despite having no other education, Roose Bolton kept him close to the company. There was nothing about him on any police records, but no family member of a Bolton would ever appear on the Night’s Watch database. There was also no medical information that could give her insight into his personality and inclinations. All she had was his driver’s license, but his long black hair and cold gray eyes said little. It was as though the man barely existed. In Brienne’s experience, that meant that he had a lot to hide.

She did have access to photographs, however. Brienne went through her folder of images from the event at the Karstarks’ estate where Red Jeyne had gone missing, which she had downloaded long ago from Westeros’ most important newspaper. There were so many of them that Brienne chose to use face recognition software to locate Ramsay in the crowd. “There you are,” she mumbled, spotting him in the ballroom at the beginning of the night, standing far from everyone else in a tattered suit, with a lopsided grin on his face. The look in his eyes gave her a chill.

She applied the same technique for the conference at Hornwood where Helicent had disappeared, and found him again, closely shadowing his father. His name had not come up in the Bolton Enterprises records, so Ramsay had been brought along on the trip on a personal level instead of as an employee. Ramsay could also be a suspect in Grey Jeyne’s case, since so many employees had attended the company’s celebration in White Harbor.

The only atypical case was Maude’s, but Brienne was starting to harbor doubts about the entire incident being connected to the others. The modus operandi had been too different; she was first raped and let go, and only after Yellow Dick’s death did she go missing, as though it had been a form of revenge. It seemed to be unrelated to the others—the only thing they had in common was Bolton Enterprises. _Did Sansa make the wrong connection when she wrote down the names?_

There was one last thing that Brienne needed in order to settle her ideas: knowing if there was a link between Ramsay and Petyr Baelish. It was then that she realized that, while being so focused on Arya, she had neglected to keep up with her monitoring of the cunning man. Brienne opened her main communications console and tried to establish a connection with Baelish’s computer. Though the method had been successful for months, this time she could not manage it. The only way a connection from her program could be disabled was if the computer had been wiped clean, or if Brienne had been discovered.

She bit her lower lip, feeling her heart speed up at the thought. She was very confident in her abilities and employed every possible approach to stay hidden while browsing another computer, but she would never be foolish enough to believe that there was no one who could match her skill. Brienne took a deep breath to help her keep calm—she could not even entertain the possibility. If Littlefinger caught her in his computer and he was being assisted by a true professional, the hacker might have even found a gateway to her files.

It could not be.

She frantically tried a series of commands, changing the ports she was using to access the wormhole. The last registered IP of Baelish’s location was at the Eyrie, a place that he visited so frequently that he might as well live there. _But what if that was just a trick?_

The options ran through her head like thousands of ants working together to rush the food to their anthill. The passersby at the airport began to stare at Brienne with more frequency than usual, so she supposed she must have gone completely pale from the shock. She closed her eyes and breathed in, out, in, needing to get out of her own head, to go back to the simplest possible approach.

 _News_.

A news website. News about the Eyrie. She typed furiously and, in a few seconds, there it was: the headliner of the Westeros Journal website, still at the top of the page, even though the article was from two days earlier.

**PETYR BAELISH FOUND DEAD AT THE EYRIE**

Her eyes scanned the article at a frenzied speed, mentally highlighting all the things of importance: respiratory failure, he was healthy, no other causes could be determined, no services will be held. She checked the last contact her background ping program had made with Baelish’s computer: thirty-eight hours ago. Enough time for his death to be official and his possessions to be catalogued and delivered to his next of kin. Because of the Westeros Law of Digital Property, all electronic devices were cleared of their information before being passed onto other members of the family to protect the privacy of the deceased, unless otherwise stated. That explained how her bug had been removed; the entire system had been reset.

She felt overwhelmed with the new information, and did her best to contain the hopelessness that Baelish’s death brought to their quest of finding Sansa. It felt like sand slipping through her fingers in the middle of a desert, clues and trails and documents all falling into nothingness, dissolving into the unanswered questions that they had always been.

Until that moment, there was always the distant possibility that they could meet Baelish personally and interrogate him, seeking the solution to their predicament right from the source. Part of Brienne felt like their research would now be buried six feet under, along with the man who was responsible for most of the prostitution and sexual trafficking in Westeros. It all mingled with the satisfaction of knowing he was as dead as all the women who had perished as a result of his depravity.

The screen of her cell phone blinked, indicating that it was fully charged. She turned it on and found a new voicemail from Jaime.

* * *

Jaime’s hair was soaking wet by the time he reached Farlen’s cottage, half a mile away from the house. He had approached it as slowly as possible, looking over his shoulder multiple times, guided by sporadic flashes of lightning. The gun was steady in his gloved hand, ready to be pointed in the direction of any assailant that might turn up.

The dogs had stopped barking only a moment ago, and somehow it felt even more unsettling than their ruckus, knowing that they might have been spooked by whatever had caused the loud noise. The water from the rain reached up to Jaime’s ankles as he descended the last hill toward the groundskeeper’s small house, clearing the raindrops from his eyes and squinting. All of the lights inside were off, and the meager porch lamp was flickering, as though the power was threatening to go out anytime. One more clap of thunder roared above him, illuminating the doorstep and allowing Jaime to see a set of large red footprints that had not yet been washed out by the rain.

The door was ajar and looked crooked, like someone had opened it by force. It was odd that none of the dogs came running in Jaime’s direction; they were quite fierce and Farlen always had to keep them off the visitors.

Jaime entered at last, carefully keeping his gun pointed to the front and making sure he cleared the area behind him before he slipped into the small living room. There was a fireplace where a small fire had burned down to its embers, but other than that, it was completely dark. He tried the first light switch he found, to no avail. _Did the power finally give out?_

The wind picked up outside with a howl, and a strong draft made the front door slam shut, startling him. He turned swiftly to find the space behind him completely empty, feeling his heart speed up at the sensation that he was being watched. In two steps he scurried towards the kitchen and his boot slipped on a puddle, but he managed to keep his ground. Jaime pulled out a small lantern from his pocket and flashed it on the floor.

It was blood.

Two questions were answered in the blink of an eye: where Farlen was, and where the dogs were. Two big huskies were lying sprawled on the floor with their mouths open and their tongues hanging out. One of them had been shot in the neck, the other in the torso, and there was a hulking figure beside them. The man had made no noise since Jaime had come in, so his first thought was that he was dead.

“Farlen?” Jaime whispered, approaching the body with caution while trying to monitor the corners of the narrow kitchen.

He focused the lantern on the man’s face, confirming the groundskeeper’s identity, and leaned down to feel his pulse. It was very weak, and he was unconscious, but alive. Jaime placed the lantern between his teeth to turn Farlen upwards and check on him. There was a large gash on his head from an attack with a blunt object, and the left side of his face was bruised. One of his eyes was so swollen that it looked more like he had been tortured than anything else. Jaime had seen pictures of such injuries before, and nearly every time it meant that the target had been interrogated.

He took off Farlen’s jacket and applied a tourniquet around his head, which was the most severe injury. He wished he knew where the rest of the dogs were; there were usually at least nine or ten of them around their master. Had they run off during the attack, or been killed as well?

The sound of a wooden door opening sent Jaime scrambling to his feet. He focused the lantern on the source, but the light was too dim. Keeping as quiet as possible, he approached the living room once more, looking for signs of the intruder.

None of what was happening made any kind of sense. Farlen had been Jaime’s suspect all along for Littlefinger’s contact in the north, and now he was another victim of whoever had sent them the wolf head. Or perhaps Jaime had been right and Baelish had considered that Farlen’s part in the deal was now done, had decided to eliminate him. Either way, the person who had beaten him up might still be inside the house.

With a deep breath, Jaime inspected the living room, keeping his back to the wall at all times. Seeing no movement, he tried the single bedroom, checking behind every door, under the bed and in the closet, but found himself alone.

When his cell phone rang loudly, he was glad that he had thoroughly checked the house. Otherwise he might have paid a high price for the sloppy oversight of not muting it.

* * *

“Jaime,” Brienne said when he answered, feeling immediate relief that he had picked up. “Where are you? I really need to talk to you about something.”

“Br—nne, we have an . . . gency.”

“What?” she asked. There was a lot of interference in the call, probably due to the last-minute storm that had hit the north in the past hour, causing some instability with the power and communications. “I can’t hear you.”

“Farlen . . . jured. Don’t know . . . did it.” There was a pause. “—enne, are you there?”

Jaime’s tone and choice of words were making her uneasy, at least what little she understood. That, and his earlier message saying he’d heard a gunshot, were starting to wrack her nerves. “Jaime, I’m here, I need you to listen to me, can you hear me?”

“—es. Where . . . you?”

“I don’t know how well you can hear me, but I’m at Torrhen’s Square. I’m leaving for Winterfell _right now_ , okay? Jaime, Petyr Baelish is dead, and I think Ramsay Snow is the one who killed those women, something really weird is happening—”

“Brienne, you were cut off,” came his voice clearly at last. Brienne’s heart was at her throat, though she was not sure why. She had a bad feeling about the night that she could not shake off, twisting her stomach into knots. “I only heard . . . Winterfe—”

“Just tell me if you’re okay,” she instructed, giving up on her attempts to deliver the latest information. Though her hands were trembling, she picked up her travel bag and rushed to the exit. Her heartbeats quickened. “I’m on my way.”

“Farlen is hurt,” Jaime said, his voice now back to its usual tone. “I have to get off the phone to—”

Brienne stopped dead on her tracks. This time he was not cut off by the interference, but by something much worse—a loud thud that froze the blood in her veins, followed by a grunt of pain. There was also a clatter, like an object falling to the ground.

“Jaime,” she called, but then realized she had merely whispered it, her sweaty hand grasping her cell phone for dear life. Her stomach dropped, her mouth opened wide, and her hearing sharpened. “ _Jaime_ ,” she repeated, her voice back to its regular volume.

Then came a second thud down the line, and she screamed his name before the silence on the other side swallowed her last of her hope.


	17. Equipment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really recommend listening to this song, since it's the main theme for this fic.
> 
> Song: [A Perfect Circle - Counting Bodies Like Sheep to the Rhythm of the War Drums](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7ejsM0VF-Os) | [Lyrics](http://songmeanings.com/songs/view/3530822107858515743/) | Beta'ed by [YellowDelaney](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowDelaney/pseuds/YellowDelaney)

Chapter 17: Equipment

_“Lie rather still because this is the first time I’ve used this equipment.”_

* * *

The water dripping sounded like a lullaby, rhythmic and constant, inviting him to stay inside the world of sleep, a world of darkness. Jaime had been having a dream—a very bad one—where he had decided to forage into a cottage in the rain, a place that held only death.

This was reality now, a space where he was safe, where he could get some respite from the constant threats surrounding Winterfell. His eyes were so heavy that he just wanted to turn to the other side on the bed and resume his rest.

Except he was not on a bed.

Jaime’s eyes opened gradually to study his surroundings. The first thing he saw was the dim light of two torches on an opposing wooden wall, which seemed quite old. The source of the dripping was a leak in one of the corners, where the water filtered in slow drops, creating a trail of mold. As his hearing sharpened, he overheard a group of dogs barking. It felt as though they were right outside the walls.

He coughed, realizing that his throat was completely dry, and only then did he focus on feeling his body. The back of his head was throbbing, and there was pressure on his wrists. When he looked down at himself, he realized that his memories weren’t part of a nightmare. But this might be.

Jaime was tied by his wrists and ankles to an X-shaped device made of wood. Someone had removed his shirt and shoes, and the strands of hair that stuck to his face were drenched. He struggled in place, trying to free himself of the restraints, but he could barely move at all. Coughing again, he sought the last memory that burned in the back of his mind: hearing Brienne’s words, so distant and scrambled. All he remembered of the conversation was that she had been in Torrhen’s Square, and that she was coming to Winterfell. He’d told her he needed to call someone to pick up Farlen, and then it was all dark.

“Brienne,” Jaime whispered, and his heart sped up, a rush of thoughts invading his mind. Was she safe? How long had he been here? The urgency of his situation was evident. He had no idea where he was, but he was convinced that whoever attacked Farlen had been responsible for bringing him to this dungeon-like, windowless room. It was hard to tell time in such a place, but he was starting to feel a chill on his bones, so he thought that perhaps it was late night.

He glanced at the wall next to him, where a board much like his own had been set up. The pictures that hung from it were in disarray and the letters and numbers on them were clumsily written down in red marker. There was a foot lamp that illuminated that corner, allowing him to inspect the content with his blurry eyes.

His shock at the images was paralyzing. There were photographs of many women, some of them as familiar as though he’d known them all his life. Helicent, Jez, Willow, Maude, Red Jeyne and Grey Jeyne, all of them gathering together for a sick sort of party. They lay naked, covered in blood, some of them missing fingers or entire limbs. Jez and Willow were in the same photograph and had taken the worst of it; their eyes had been ripped out and laid over their bellies, their throats were slashed and they had been bound together at the waist. A shiver ran down Jaime’s spine, and he felt like he might retch. All he and Brienne had ever seen were pictures of the girls alive and smiling, and the violence they’d faced at the hands of their attacker was worthy of a psychopath. Grey Jeyne had been bled like a pig, tied by the wrists from the ceiling.

He pried his eyes from the images and focused on the text over each of them. “Helicent: 7, Red Jeyne: 6, Grey Jeyne: 3, Maude: 4, Willow: 9, Jez: 2.” It matched Sansa’s code, though she had not managed to write down the full names. _Was she here, watching all of this?_ Jaime could not begin to imagine how an eleven-year-old girl might feel about such a sight, but then again, the young Stark had also been present while her family was murdered in a massacre.

There was new information that immediately drew his attention, two unfamiliar names: Alison and Sara. Young, like the others, and pretty. One of them had the mockingbird tattoo on her neck, but it was impossible to tell whether the other girl had one, since her head had been severed from her body in a show of brutality that Jaime had never seen before. _Our Arya and Sansa_ , he recalled. They had assumed that the ‘A’ and ‘S’ belonged to the Stark girls, but they had been wrong. Perhaps these two had been brought straight from King’s Landing, instead of kidnapped in the north.

The last one’s name was Kyra.

 _Our missing ‘K’_. She was different to all the rest, the only one who had two pictures: one while she was still alive, another after she’d been killed. Her number was also the highest: twenty-three. What the numbers meant, Jaime could only wonder. Kyra had a gruesome bite on her leg, likely caused by a dog or wolf, but that was not what had killed her. Her right arm had been flayed up to the elbow, and she seemed to have been strangled at the end, from the way her eyes had glazed over.

“Do you like her, Kingslayer?” a voice asked behind him.

Jaime’s head turned at the sound to watch a man approaching. He was somewhat younger than Jaime, his frame tall and wide. Everything about him was ugly, from his long black hair to his big, crooked nose, and his eyes glinted in the same sick way that his father’s did. Ramsay Snow’s large mouth curved into a grin as his face neared Jaime’s. He smelled strongly of sweat and wet dog.

 _Bolton’s son_ , Jaime thought, realizing how close he and Brienne had been to the truth. Damon must have been working for Ramsay, a simple accessory to his revolting hobby. Was that was the geek was saying on the phone when she’d called? There was such urgency to her tone that perhaps she had been alerting Jaime of Snow’s guilt in the women’s deaths.

“You have a sickening way to pass the time,” Jaime replied at last, keeping his fear hidden from his tone.

Ramsay smiled proudly at that. “We all have our tastes, Kingslayer. You like huge, ugly women yourself, from what I’ve seen,” he said with a snicker. “I, myself, prefer to hunt.”

 _Hunt?_ Realization dawned on him. It was not animals that Bolton enjoyed hunting, it was women.

As an answer to his silence, Snow continued, “Some of them were fighters, too. Kyra there, the one you like? She holds the top score. Twenty-three days she lasted in the woods, before I found her and she met my knife. She thought she was being clever, so I made sure to punish her insolence.”

Jaime’s stomach twisted, recalling the code that was now embedded in his brain. Seven, six, three . . . The numbers were how long the women had managed to stay away from Bolton’s son during the hunts. Somehow, through all his unease, he was thankful that Brienne was not here with him, hearing these words. _Would she kill the bastard if she knew?_

Ramsay did not fail to notice Jaime’s surprise. “Don’t worry. You’ll get your turn now.”

He sneered, determined not to give him the satisfaction of watching him squirm. “We’re at the Dreadfort, aren’t we?” Jaime asked with nonchalance. “And it only took you . . . what? Half a year to get me here?”

For his trouble, Ramsay gave him a punch that made his head spin. “When the fucking Blackfish went digging around for his niece, I didn’t give a shit. How was he to find that bitch that went missing ten years ago?” He grabbed a handful of Jaime’s hair, pulling harshly. “Then you and your little whore started digging in the wrong place, and spat in my face by ignoring my warning.”

Jaime grinned, tasting the blood that had gathered in his mouth. “Very scary, your wolf head. Left a mighty big stain in our living room.”

Another punch. This one hurt more than the first. Jaime’s nose might have been broken; it started bleeding profusely, and his cheek stung. “Keep laughing, Lannister,” Ramsay scorned. “You know who laughed at me? Helicent. She was my second, so young and pretty, thought herself too good for the likes of me. She laughed a lot, yes, when I told her I was gonna have her all for myself. She wasn’t laughing so hard when I stuck a knife in her gut after I fucked her.”

 _Keep focused_ , Jaime told himself, _don’t bite_. His only hope was to keep the man talking long enough that he might have a chance to escape. When Brienne arrived at the house in Winterfell, she would call the police; she would do something, he harbored no doubts about it. But in order for that to save his ass, he needed to keep himself alive long enough for the Night’s Watch to show up here.

But what was _here_? The thought was an unwelcome one. If Jaime didn’t know where he was, how could Brienne? If his assumption that they were at the Dreadfort was correct, it would be nearly impossible for the police to get a warrant without probable cause. If it was not, they could be anywhere in the frozen north.

 _I’m going to die here_. Dread snuck into his veins, drop by drop, filling him with a helplessness that he had never experienced before. Jaime was a Lannister, the son of the mighty Tywin, and no one would ever harm him at the risk of provoking the richest, most powerful businessman in Westeros. Despite having walked away from his father and the LanCorp empire years ago, Tywin would still protect him when push came to shove. He would never allow the Lannister name to be in jeopardy, especially not by the likes of an illegitimate son of Roose Bolton.

Except that no one knew Jaime was here. Brienne would realize that he had been taken, but she wouldn’t know where, and the same went for the Blackfish. Ramsay Snow had abducted women for years and only one body had ever been recovered—Red Jeyne’s. It was the only mistake the bastard had made. Who could possibly find Jaime when he was killed and thrown out like he was nothing?

 _I won’t die on my knees_ , Jaime told himself at last. “You think you’re so clever, but you were easy to figure out,” Jaime taunted. “All of your kills were so close to the Dreadfort, and so many of them came from your friend Littlefinger. Two peas in a pod . . .” He grinned. “A lowlife turned millionaire and a gangster’s bastard.”

The following blow was so rough that it sent Jaime straight back into darkness.

* * *

The second time he woke, it felt as though days had flown by. The first thing he felt were his wrists; his skin was being chafed raw by the rope, and his arms and legs were cramped from the awkward position of his body. Jaime was so thirsty that he could feel his strength faltering. There was a trail of blood from his nose that went all the way down to his chest, and his mouth was filled with its coppery taste.

As soon as he stirred, he was hit with a freezing cold all over his body and his eyes widened as he gasped loudly. The bastard stood in front of him with an empty bucket; he’d showered him with iced water from head to toe. Jaime started to shiver, the frigid current coming from the open doorway hitting him like a snowstorm.

“You thirsty?” Ramsay asked, forcing a flask on Jaime’s lips.

He was. So he drank eagerly, setting aside his suspicions about the contents of the bottle. If Snow wanted to poison him, so be it—it would be faster than being flayed. The liquid had an odd taste, but the relentless thirst made him push past it. Either he had been locked away for a longer time than he estimated, or he had been given a heavy tranquilizer so he could be dragged into the room. From his interviews with the women who had been abused at Harrenhal, he knew that certain sedatives could cause severe dehydration.

Once he was done with the contents, the bastard burst out laughing, causing an echo throughout the whole cell. “I didn’t know you were such a fan of piss, Kingslayer.”

Telling himself to hold his head high was not enough, and in a moment, he was bending forward as far as he could and throwing up over the hay-covered floor. There was dry blood all over it, far too old to be his own. He wondered how many people had been tied down to the strange X-shaped gadget.

“Fuck you,” Jaime groaned, feeling light-headed.

A cold knife was slid deftly against the skin of his throat in response. “You think I’m playing games with you, Kingslayer?” The tip of the weapon dug into his flesh and cut him slightly. Warm blood poured down, and his thoughts went back to Brienne like magnets drawn to steel, recalling the last time he had bled like this, the feel of her skin against his, her gentle touches and the way she had washed his skin, bandaged him, cared for him.

He had to keep going. Brienne needed him to find Sansa. It was all that was left of her innocence.

“Like the games you played with Sansa?” Jaime replied, spitting blood and the remains of the piss on the floor. If only he could manage to press Ramsay’s buttons, he might be able to get more information about the Starks and Littlefinger, in case he somehow made it alive out of his cell.

Snow sneered. “Wrong wolf,” he pointed out, walking toward the opposite side of the room. He picked up one of the torches and lit up a wall, allowing Jaime to see a large photograph that had been framed and hung. A face that had fooled both him and Brienne for months, and the Blackfish for over a decade—the face of Jeyne Poole.

“The Stark bitch, she’s the only one who ever escaped.” Rage dripped from the bastard’s voice with every word. “That fucking whore, she thought she was so damn smart, going from stream to stream so my hounds would lose her scent. For years I kept her here. I made her my dear mistress. Couldn’t treat her like the others, she was no common girl. But she paid me back by running from me.”

Jaime listened intently, trying to commit every word to memory. Petyr Baelish had managed to fool Ramsay Snow as well; well enough that he truly thought Littlefinger had delivered Arya Stark to his doorstep. Had that been a part of the deal in the Red Wedding?

Jaime’s eyes widened. _Did Snow provide the assassins in exchange for Arya?_ That was impossible. Baelish would never participate in such a scheme, not unless he knew his Cat would be safe. Had something gone terribly wrong with his plan? Jaime thought back to the real Arya Stark, safe in Braavos, to the way her DNA had been switched by Janos Slynt.

The pieces started falling into place: Baelish planning the assassination along with Frey and Bolton. Ramsay offering to provide a deal with the killers from the Kingswood Brotherhood through his dreadful friends, so long as he could keep Arya Stark as a trophy. He didn’t want common girls like himself to rape and kill; he’d gotten tired of the prostitutes and wanted a high-class girl that would make him feel less Snow and more Bolton. But Arya had been dragged off by Sandor Clegane, so Baelish had to come up with a different plan. Like a gift from the gods, Jeyne Poole had entered the scene. She had been the perfect pawn then, only a year older than the real Arya, with similar features and without anyone who would look for her. With a simple switch of DNA, Littlefinger’s problem was solved.

Except for the fact that, years later, Jeyne escaped from the Dreadfort.

In the eye of his mind, Jaime watched the scene unfold. Somehow she had gotten caught, but not by Ramsay. He would have her picture next to the others if he had. She had fallen into the hands of Littlefinger, and he’d probably tried to make her into another prostitute at his brothel instead of returning her to Ramsay, since he was always trying to make a profit off his assets. Had Jeyne tried to run from Baelish then? Was that how she had ended up dead in an alleyway?

 _Brienne, I need to tell her . . . where are you, geek?_ It would have taken so long for them to figure out all of what he’d learned in the past minutes. So many questions had been answered, so much research time that could now be fully invested in Sansa, if the redhead was still alive somewhere.

 _Sansa_.

“You took the diary,” Jaime told Snow with a frown. “When you broke into the house, you took the diary.”

Ramsay slammed his fist against a table by the door. “My dear Stark mistress. She had a bag of clothes when she showed up at the Dreadfort. I had all her shit thrown into a basement. She must’ve found it while cleaning. I should’ve never given her freedom at the estate, that traitorous cunt.”

 _Sansa’s diary_. Jaime couldn’t help but laugh in derision. _It was Jeyne’s diary all along_.

Laughing was a mistake.

“You still find this funny?” Snow approached him, gritting his teeth. His eyes were flaring with fury. He gave Jaime a blow to the stomach that knocked the wind out of him. He tried to speak, to come up with a different remark that might calm him down or drive him from the room, but all he could do was gasp for air. He had definitely fucked up this time.

Just as he was about to lead Ramsay back into the conversation, he received a new blow to the side of the head that left him disoriented, eyes shut tight as he winced. A relief to the pain in his wrists and ankles came, and he realized he was being released, but by the time he could open his eyes and bring some air back into his lungs, Ramsay was strangling him on the floor.

Jaime coughed once, twice, but no air came through. He struggled against Ramsay’s grab on him, but his arms and legs were still numb from the restraints. The bastard’s thumbs dug into his throat, choking the life out of him, and all he could do was watch. The world started to grow blurry and unstable, as if Jaime were watching it through a thick layer of plastic. Just when he was about to give into the pull of unconsciousness, the bastard released him, and fresh air flew into his lungs in big wheezes.

“Not so fast,” Ramsay told him, beaming with delight. “I didn’t chase you for so long just to strangle you. That’s too good a death for the Kingslayer.” While he focused on catching his breath, Ramsay bound the rope on his hands to a long cord and hung him from the ceiling faster than Jaime could think of an escape strategy. The bastard walked over to the table, where a gray toolbox rested, and rummaged through it. He showed him a strange-looking knife. “Should we begin by flaying you?”

He gained on Jaime until he was standing face to face with him. Jaime’s feet did not quite reach the ground, so his arms quickly grew tired of holding his weight in the air. Ramsay pressed the flat of the blade of against Jaime’s chest, running the cold metal over his skin with a look of perverse satisfaction. “You know, you’re prettier than most of the girls I’ve had here, Lannister. I’ve always dreamed of your sister’s cunt, and you look just like her. Maybe I’ll play with you for a while before I kill you.”

Jaime gritted his teeth, his hands becoming fists over his head.

“Or maybe . . .” A lopsided grin spread over Ramsay’s face slowly. “It’s not your cock that you love most, I think. It was your hands you used to become the Kingslayer, after digging your claws into the Kingswood Brotherhood and shitting on our business with them. The same hands that got you to fall on your ass when you tried to go against Aerys Targaryen.” The bastard brushed a strand of his dry black hair behind his ear, putting the knife back in his toolbox and reaching for an axe beside the door. “Those you used to fuck your ugly whore right under Tully’s nose.”

Jaime wished he could throw a mighty fine blow against Snow’s face, if not for his own sake, at least for Brienne’s. Ramsay’s treatment of women sickened Jaime to his very core, so to have him refer to Brienne at all made him want to crack his thick neck. “Do whatever you want to do,” he replied angrily, “but shut the fuck up already.”

Snow’s gaze intensified as he approached him, the axe glinting against the light of the torches. _Kill me quickly_ , Jaime prayed, though he had not uttered a single word to the Seven since he was still a boy in Casterly Rock. _Just end it_. Time seemed to slow down to a crawl; he heard the water dripping in the corner again, felt the cold breeze coming from the door on his drenched, shivering skin. His pulse was beating harshly against his neck, but he did not close his eyes. He would look into the bastard’s eyes for every single second while he died.

Ramsay stopped when he was in front of Jaime, his hand wrapped around the axe. “I’ll take your right hand first. See what it’s like when a Lannister screams.”

Jaime would not give Snow the pleasure; he would bite down on his tongue to shut himself up if he had to. The blade of the axe was rusted, so it would likely take more than one swing for the bone to break. For a second he thought he would retch again, but his stomach was completely empty. He frowned, burying himself in the best thoughts he could summon, and his mind did not go to his childhood or to King’s Landing, it did not go to _Millennium_ or his children.

It went to a pair of bright blue eyes, a silhouette made of pale, freckled skin. It went to so many cold nights in Winterfell, warmed by her body shifting on top of him as though she had always belonged there, giving him all that she was and could yet be. He shut his ears to Ramsay’s ramblings and listened to Brienne’s words in bed instead, to the way she moaned his name, to the time when he was leaving to pick up a package from his brother in Torrhen’s Square and she had asked him to stay with her.

“I want to be with you,” she’d whispered shyly then. Apologetically. He could have never resisted after watching her that way, just for once, there had been no walls between them, no hiding away. They’d spent that entire day in bed, touching each other, trying new things, kissing until they were both breathless.

When Jaime opened his eyes and saw her, he was convinced it was a hallucination.

* * *

_“Breathe in, breathe out,” came her father’s voice, low enough for the stag not to flee._

The gun was steady in Brienne’s hands. Even though she had not practiced in years, once Jaime acquired it, she took her time to shoot bottles in the yard for practice while he was gone. All of the flashbacks the weapon brought to her were bitter, tainted by the light going out of her father’s eyes. That was all guns were good for, having people’s lives ripped apart.

She breathed, standing by the door of the cabin, keeping focused on her target—the back of Ramsay Snow’s head. _Never hesitate_ , Mr. Goodwin had instructed when she went through her basic training as an Evenstar Security employee. Though she had refused to carry a gun of her own, she still had to pass her firearms exam. Brienne had always wondered if her father had hesitated when the intruder broke into their house. She did not have to make much of an effort to recall the exact sound of the attacker’s skull cracking when she’d hit him. The sound of death.

Jaime had noticed her at last, but he made an effort not to give her away, as he hung from a cord on the ceiling with his hands bound. Bolton’s son kept talking about the things he was planning to do with the axe, about cutting off Jaime’s hand, watching the way it would bleed, but soon it became background noise to Brienne. All she heard were the woods during the last day she’d spent with her father.

_“Relax your shoulders and refocus,” her father told her, lightly touching her elbow so she would adjust her position._

_Brienne’s arm shifted slightly to the right. Her hand was steady._

_“You have to learn to protect yourself,” he said upon noticing her hesitation. “Today it’s a stag, but tomorrow it could be a bear, a wolf, a criminal.”_

_“This is easy for you,” Brienne whispered, her heart beating fast. “You were in the army.”_

_“It is never easy to kill your first man. But I had a duty.”_

_“I don’t,” she protested. The stag was large and majestic, the first she had ever seen. Usually it was her father who shot the game, and more often than not they ran into deer or pheasants. The animal looked so comfortable in the woods, eating leaves in a clearing. “I don’t need to kill it.”_

_“You need to learn that nothing in life is black or white. That the world is not like your stories, darling,” he said soothingly. “Take your shot.”_

In total silence not to alert Snow, Brienne acquired her target, but she only had one shot. If she missed by an inch, it would be over; the same inch that had saved Jaime in the woods, the inch that had allowed a bullet to go straight through her father’s aorta and kill him in seconds. _Breathe in. Breathe out_.

_Brienne felt a sting in her heart that came from knowing the animal would go down with a certainty. She had practiced with so many blanks, so many clay birds, for such a long time . . . She was certain she wouldn’t miss a stag, let alone one as big as this._

_She took the shot, and the animal went down._

Bang.

Jaime’s rope was sliced clean, and he fell to the floor while the echo of the gunshot still pervaded the room.

Ramsay Snow swung around with the axe held firmly over his head, his cold, gray eyes wide open. “You fucking bitch!” he exclaimed, almost reaching her in two steps, but her gun was already pointed in the direction of his chest.

“Don’t move,” Brienne said clearly, somehow keeping the panic out of her voice. “Stay where you are.”

She made her way around him, grabbing a knife from a toolbox and approaching Jaime. Never taking her eyes off Ramsay, and never dropping the gun, she cut Jaime’s rope off his wrists and stood completely straight.

“I knew you’d come,” Jaime muttered, but she did not look at him. “Took you long enough, geek.”

“What the fuck did you do to my hounds?” Ramsay spat, still holding the hatchet.

“I killed them,” she replied with a frown. “Put down the axe.”

“This thing?” Snow smirked for the first time since she’d entered the room, tossing the weapon from one hand to the other. _He’s spotting a weakness_ , she thought in despair. _He thinks I won’t shoot_.

“Brienne,” Jaime’s voice came, patient and calm. “Shoot him. He killed all the women, even more than we knew. He needs to die.”

She swallowed hard, her heart jumping in her chest with every passing second. Brienne could almost feel her father’s warm blood on her hands as she held him, feel the stag’s fur as she skinned it in the barn after their last hunt, could see the killer’s eyes, open and dead in her house. After that it was all loneliness, all trials and sentences and evaluations, all guardianships and powerlessness.

Before she knew it, Jaime was standing beside her. “Give me the gun,” he whispered so only she would hear. “You’re no killer.”

After that, it all became a blur. As Jaime reached for the gun, Ramsay leapt over them with the axe over his head. “I’ll fucking kill you both!” he bellowed, and Brienne felt the cold bite of a blade on her shoulder, right before leaping to the side and falling to the ground. As her cheek hit the hay-covered floor, the room was filled with light and the sound another gunshot. She felt a splash of warm blood covering her face; felt a rush of panic through her veins. She did not even know that she had closed her eyes until she opened them to find Jaime standing over Ramsay’s body, a dark red spot firmly settled on his forehead, dripping blood all over the floor. Jaime was taking deep breaths.

Brienne felt as though time had stopped, as if she was merely imagining the entire scene. Her eyes came to rest on a board at the opposite wall, on a series of pictures that she hadn’t noticed before. Corpse after corpse settled in her mind, where they would remain forever untouched, where they could never be forgotten, no matter how much she wished it. Women her age and younger, missing eyes, missing limbs, blood everywhere. They had been raped, mutilated, turned into less than human beings through Ramsay Snow’s torture. Every letter and number was etched into her brain, like every other piece of data she had looked at. Some of them had been there for a long time, others were new—Alison, Sara, Kyra. Then Jeyne Poole’s photograph on a different wall, framed for everyone to admire.

She heard a choked sob and turned to look at Jaime. He was crouching on her side, staring at her with curious eyes. Tearless eyes. She was the one who was crying; crying out the panic that she had kept to herself throughout the past hours, the fear she’d pushed deep inside when she had found Farlen in the house and Jaime gone, the gun on the floor, the cell phone under a table. Brienne had told her heart to stay still so she could think, so she could figure out a solution. Her face had been stone when she had called the Blackfish and told him to get an ambulance, her hands had been steady when she’d climbed on Jaime’s SUV and followed his trail at full speed after she recalled putting a GPS tracker on his wallet. Her will was iron when she found the cabin near Long Lake and dosed the last of their sandwiches with Jaime’s sedatives from the time he was injured, and threw it for the hounds to eat.

And still she had hesitated.

 _You’re only a girl_ , she told herself, commanding her tears to stop, her sobs to shush. It was seeing Jaime that broke her. Jaime, who had been hanging there like meat, facing the threat of having his hands cut off, whose blood was covering him, face swollen from the beating he’d taken. Jaime, whom she had asked to be careful, to think before doing anything rash, and he had still gone off to Farlen’s by himself, thinking that he could take whatever was out there. The same who had deemed it important to call her in such a moment, to tell her to stay away and be safe. _Stupid, careless Jaime_.

The Jaime she loved.

With no warning, she turned to the side and threw up, the images of the women flashing in quick succession in her head. As soon as her chest stopped heaving, Jaime took off her shirt gently and wiped Ramsay’s blood from her face. She was wearing nothing underneath, so the cold air that rushed through the door turned her skin to gooseflesh. He set out to check the wound on her shoulder. She’d forgotten all about it, barely able to feel it through her distress.

“Not much worse than the rake of a bear,” Jaime told her softly, his eyes seeking hers.

Once he was done assessing the injury, Brienne brought her knees to her chest in silence, resting her chin on her forearm and staring with unseeing eyes into Ramsay’s dead face.

“What are we going to do?” Brienne asked, barely a whisper.

“Nothing,” Jaime replied, standing and looking down at Snow’s corpse as a pool of blood spread beneath him. “We were never here.”


	18. Cry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: [Marilyn Manson - The Last Day on Earth](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LiO-I5kjmIU) | [Lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/marilynmanson/lastdayonearth.html) | Beta'ed by [YellowDelaney](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowDelaney/pseuds/YellowDelaney)

Chapter 18: Cry

_It did no good to cry, she had learned that early on. She had also learned that every time she tried to make someone aware of something in her life, the situation just got worse. Consequently it was up to her to solve her problems by herself, using whatever methods she deemed necessary._

* * *

If Jaime let her, Brienne would have sat on the ground for hours, huddled up and speechless.

The wound on her shoulder did not preoccupy him as much as her state of mind. It was as though once Ramsay lay dead at his feet, realization of the last events had fallen upon her, heavy as an anvil. They had both been close to death this time—if she had not dodged at the last second, the bastard might have slashed Brienne’s throat with his axe.

Leaving her to sit, he inspected the place, realizing that they were in a cabin in the middle of the woods. Jaime gazed out the open entrance and saw a lake. The sun was rising slowly in the horizon, and there was a fine cloud of fog in the air.

His SUV was parked in front of the cabin with the keys still in the ignition. He rummaged through the trunk until he found a sweater and an old shirt, and headed back inside to dress Brienne with the garments. Her tears had dried up on her face, and her breathing was back to normal, so he sat beside her on the floor.

“Brienne,” Jaime started, lifting her chin and looking into her eyes. “Where are we?”

“Long Lake,” she whispered. “Near Jez and Willow’s cabin.”

“Okay.” He brushed his thumb against ruined cheek softly, enjoying the feeling of her warmth and just how real she was. It was not as though he was very together himself. Only moments ago he had been certain that he would die, before she had swept in and saved him, just like she had by giving the recommendation that had started them on this whole journey. “It’s going to be fine. Tell me where we stand.”

Brienne cleared her throat. “I don’t think anyone heard the shots, we’re too far from other cabins.”

“The dogs?”

“Sleeping. I gave them pills and moved them to a kennel in the yard. The meds should be out of their system soon.”

“Good. Then we need to figure out the loose ends and wrap this up.”

Brienne got to her feet without a word. Jaime stood by in case she felt lightheaded, but she seemed fine. He was still thirsty, and so hungry that he felt as though he’d been away for days. “How long was I here?”

“Around twelve hours,” she replied, wiping the handle of the gun with the sleeve of the sweater and placing it beside the body.

A single inspection of the small lakeside house was enough for Jaime to find his clothes and other belongings, as well as a coat he used to shield his damp body from the chill. He also stumbled upon a package that was to be expected of any member of the Bolton family—a sack of heroin. Putting the thought to the back of his mind, he skimmed the kitchen for food and found bottled water and a pack of crackers with a respectable expiration date. He and Brienne shared them on the porch, and he glanced at her as they ate in silence. She was being more distant than usual, barely answering what she was asked and avoiding his gaze at all cost.

Deciding that whatever was wrong was best dealt with back at Winterfell, he set out to work with her help. They wiped every trace of their presence from the cell, from footprints to blood, making sure not to touch the area surrounding the bastard and leaving all the evidence of his crimes up for the world to see. Brienne lit a fire in the fireplace to burn Jeyne Poole’s picture, insisting that she didn’t want anything coming back to Arya in order to protect her from further investigations.

The bags of heroin were carried back into the living room and set up to make it seem like a drug deal gone wrong. They also burned the rug of the bastard’s Hummer, where Jaime’s head injury had left a trail of blood. It took at least six hours for the work to be done and the fire to extinguish, but at last it seemed like all their bases were covered.

One last look around the house brought Jaime back to the gun. Brienne caught him staring and pulled lightly on the sleeve of his coat, gesturing for the door. “It won’t be a problem,” she assured him quietly.

Jaime followed her, but he was curious about the weapon. He had been the one to buy it, back when Ramsay left the wolf head in their living room. “What did you do?” he asked while getting in the driver’s seat.

“I modified the records when you bought it. It’s registered to Petyr Baelish, who now happens to be dead.”

“He’s _what_?”

She leaned back on the seat and sighed, looking out the window as he pulled into the road. “I’ll explain later.”

“We have a long ride ahead. You might as well explain now.”

In the end, Brienne caught him up, but every word was measured, bringing Jaime back to their first encounter. He had a hard time telling whether it was because of the shock, or if her wound was bothering her, or if she was simply tired. She had probably been up for over twenty-four hours by now, exhausted from two plane rides and a day with too many events to process, so he decided to back off once they were done catching up with the case. He would need a lot of rest himself.

* * *

When they arrived at the house, the Blackfish was waiting for them outside. According to him, the Night’s Watch had just left after he’d called them on Farlen’s behalf. The groundskeeper had been taken to the nearest hospital; his condition was critical but stable, and there was no way to tell when he might regain consciousness. The crime scene had been inspected and released. Tully had made a statement assuring the cops that Jaime had driven to Torrhen’s Square to pick Brienne up from the airport, giving them an alibi, though they would still have to make declarations since they lived so close to Farlen.

After the older man left, Brienne locked herself up in her room. There was nothing Jaime could think of to say, but it was an unwelcome surprise to see her acting in such a way. He had waited so long to see her, to have her in his arms, to sleep with her again, and after such a close call he would have been grateful for her company.

Pushing the disappointment aside, Jaime got himself to his bed, and in the blink of an eye, he fell into a deep sleep.

When he opened his eyes again, it was already dusk. His whole body felt heavy and his mind was a blur, but Brienne’s injury immediately sprang to mind. He knocked on her door once, twice, and heard nothing on the other side, but her set of keys to the house and to the motorcycle were hanging by the door. With a frustrated groan, he gave up and headed to the shower.

As soon as he had washed off the blood, he assessed all of his injuries. His face was swollen from the beating and he had several cuts and scrapes, but his nose was not broken. The wound at the back of his neck didn’t feel serious when he ran his fingers over it, and it had stopped bleeding when he climbed out of the shower. He had large, purple bruises on his side, but they felt superficial. All in all, he was lucky—by the time Brienne had arrived at the cabin, the bastard was only getting started with his game.

Once he had eaten and drunk as much water as he could take, Jaime lay back on his bed again, trying to organize his thoughts about what they would do now. Looking up at the ceiling, the questions lined up before him, so many of them answered by now. Bolton’s son had provided the guns for hire for the Red Wedding; Littlefinger had paid him with a false Arya Stark. Jeyne Poole had taken the worst of it, being Snow’s sexual slave for years before she could escape, leaving them the code in the diary that would eventually crack the case. Later she had somehow fallen into Littlefinger’s hands again, and met her maker in the alleys of Kind’s Landing.

Then there was Arya Stark, who was alive and well in Braavos, refusing to return to her old life. So many doors had closed, but still the biggest remained wide open. _Where is Sansa Stark?_ Littlefinger’s death had been extremely suspicious; he was young and healthy, and the official report indicated that he had died of respiratory failure. There was no fooling Jaime’s experienced eye, however. The man had clearly been poisoned, and the only loose variable in the equation was Sansa Stark.

On the one hand it meant that she still lived, but on the other, she might not be even the shadow of the young innocent girl that attended her uncle’s wedding. With the Freys’ deaths unresolved, and now Littlefinger’s, there was much and more than met the eye when it came to the redhead. The one major change in their investigation was that he and Brienne could now focus solely on Sansa’s location.

As if drawn by his thoughts, he heard Brienne’s door open, and the bathroom door close soon afterwards. He trailed after her and, upon finding it locked, he knocked over and over again. “Brienne,” he called, loudly enough to be heard over the noise of the shower that had begun to run. “Stop ignoring me, you need help with your wound.” He knocked again. “ _Brienne_.”

Still no response.

Someone rang the bell, and when Jaime went back to the living room, he realized it had started to rain again. A cop stood outside; a face that was familiar enough from the pictures of the Starks, though Jaime had never met him personally.

Benjen Stark was a slim man with black hair, and looked close to Jaime’s age. His time beyond the Wall had not aged him much, it seemed. He stood straight and his features were hardened.

“Benjen Stark,” Jaime said for a welcome, keeping the door barely open. “I didn’t think they’d assign you to this case. Conflict of interest and all that.”

“I’m an ethical professional, Kingslayer,” Stark replied, pursing his lips. It was easy to tell that he wasn’t exactly thrilled about having to interview a Lannister. “Unlike yourself. May I come in?”

“It’s past eight, you know. It’s not polite to show up so late.” He needed to give Brienne enough time to get dressed and conceal her wound. “The Blackfish told us you’d be coming, but he didn’t mention it would be so late. We’ve had a long day.”

“Looks like you’ve been getting yourself into trouble.” Benjen’s eyes were wandering over the bruises on his face. “Been in a struggle recently?”

“As a matter of fact, I had to put someone in their place for letting his tongue run when he met my companion.”

“Let me in, Lannister. This will only take a moment.”

Grudgingly, Jaime stepped aside to allow Benjen in. His outfit was all black, as was usual for the officers of the Night’s Watch. The water that dripped from his coat and the mud from his shoes gathered at the entrance, and were dragged all the way to the living room as Stark inspected the room with a critical eye. Jaime merely crossed his arms.

Brienne’s door opened and she came out wearing a dark hoodie that hid her shoulder from view. “I’m Brienne Tarth,” she told Stark simply. “How can we help?”

“I’m Captain Benjen Stark, from the Night’s Watch. I’m in charge of investigating what happened today in Farlen’s house, as a favor for the Blackfish.” His gaze flickered between Brienne’s face and Jaime’s, and then fell to Jaime’s right hand. “It seems like you didn’t give as good as you got on behalf of your companion.”

Brienne’s expression remained unfazed. Jaime replied, “I didn’t say I was sober when I defended her honor.”

Benjen pursed his lips and pulled a recorder out of his pocket. It looked like a thing from another century, but the man had been away from civilization for over a decade, so Jaime could hardly blame him. It had taken him a long time to start using his cell phone to record his conversations with his sources as well.

“Where were you last night between the hours of 6 and 7 PM?”

“I went to pick up Brienne at the Sentinel Airport in Torrhen’s Square. I don’t know the exact time I left.” He checked his cell phone for his first call, back when he had contacted her to let her know he’d heard a gunshot. “Here, 6:13 PM. That’s when I left for the airport. Then Brienne called me back a few minutes later to ask how long I’d be.” He scrolled down. “6:38 PM.”

“And after that?”

“He picked me up a couple of hours later and we stayed out until this morning,” Brienne added with a shrug.

“Can anyone confirm this?”

“It was just us,” Jaime said with the most charming grin he could pull off, placing his arms around Brienne’s waist. “We hadn’t seen each other in a while, so we were eager to get our hands all over each other, you understand. Winterfell was a long way off.”

Benjen frowned and Brienne’s face turned a deep red, but she said nothing to contradict him. Jaime was sure that Brynden Tully had already informed Benjen of their affair, so he would have no problem believing the story. “Before you left, did you hear or see anything unusual?”

“No,” he replied. “I fell asleep in the afternoon, so I wasn’t aware of any activity outside. Farlen usually scouts the grounds during the early morning and around sundown for intruders or wolves.” Jaime shrugged. “When I woke up, I simply called Brienne and left. I heard nothing.” His heart skipped a beat, recalling the text he had sent Brynden to alert him of the noise. _You idiot_ , he thought to himself, wondering what would happen if the Night’s Watch subpoenaed his phone records.

After a few more inane questions about Farlen’s routine, which Jaime answered as sharply as he could, Stark decided to leave. Soon afterwards, Brienne silently sat to work on her laptop while she ate one of the pre-packaged sandwiches from the fridge. The only words she uttered to him were to let him know that she had deleted all traces of the text message he’d sent Tully, and that she would spend the night monitoring the activity of the Night’s Watch to ensure that they weren’t suspects in the investigation after the interview. When he tried to check her wound, Brienne asked him to stop, so he did not insist.

 _It would seem that things only continue to get worse_. Jaime decided to give it a rest for the second time that day, and went back to bed with his bedroom door wide open in case she changed her mind.

* * *

The feeling of something moving beside Jaime on the bed woke him in the morning. The dim light of dawn was only starting to illuminate his bedroom, and there were birds chirping in the yard. The rain had ceased, and the cold winds that had filtered through the edges of the window throughout the night had ended, leaving behind a warmer climate.

The figure moved again, and Jaime gazed down to find Brienne’s blue eyes staring into his. He wondered how long she’d been there; if she was only going to sleep now after pulling an all-nighter, if she’d been beside him for hours or perhaps she had just awoken and decided to join him. Not that it mattered.

She closed the distance between them, pressing her body to his. Jaime’s fingers brushed against her side to discover that she was wearing nothing underneath the covers; felt the skin of her chest and caressed her breasts. Brienne’s lips met his in response, a slow, probing kiss that felt like a breath of fresh air after they had been apart. He eagerly returned it, tasting her mouth and reveling in the familiar feel of her big, fleshy lips.

 _Have you changed your mind?_ he wanted to ask, but restrained himself, not wanting to ruin the moment. If he let one question pour out of him, all the rest would follow: _Did you miss me? Did you think of me? Were you scared that I would die?_ She _had_ been scared. Jaime knew that from the way she had cried in front of him, pouring out her emotions on the floor of Ramsay Snow’s cabin, but he was yearning to hear it from her.

He grasped her hip firmly and moved to lay half on top of her, kissed her until they were out of breath and she broke apart. He pulled down the covers to see her exposed torso, her pink, erect nipples, her flushed chest. The wound on her shoulder was concealed by a clumsily wrapped bandage that Jaime untied with just a flick of his wrist. She frowned, but let him remove it.

The wound was the size of a finger, located where her neck met her shoulder, and it was hard to tell how deep it went, but at least there was a scab covering it. The memory of Ramsay’s hand swinging the axe flashed in his brain, filling him with a sense of trickling panic in the face of what could have been. He wondered if this was the way Brienne had felt back when he had been attacked in the woods. Except she had told him not to go out there, to be careful since they’d received that threat, and he had not listened . . . Was that why she was so upset? Because once more he had followed his instinct and risked his life?

Jaime focused back on the wound, running his finger over the cut. She winced and pulled back. “I saw that axe, Brienne. We need to get you a tetanus shot. You might need stitches, too.”

“I had it checked,” she said softly. “And I’ve already had the shot. I went to the pharmacy in Winter Town and had it while you were sleeping yesterday. I can’t go and get stitches, it’s too risky with the Night’s Watch breathing down our necks. It’s not even bleeding anymore.”

Brienne sat up and reached for his t-shirt, which sat at the foot of the bed, but he stopped her hand midway, intertwining his fingers with hers. He sat against the headboard and pulled her towards him so she would straddle him. She complied reluctantly. Jaime cupped her face and brushed the tip of his nose against her chin, while his fingers traced circles over the small of her back. “Let me take care of you,” he whispered, placing kisses along her jaw, “like you took care of me.”

As soon as his lips brushed her earlobe, she sighed and nodded, relaxing into his arms. He retrieved a bundle of clean bandages from the drawer of his bedside table and patiently secured them by wrapping them around her armpit and over her shoulder, until it barely stayed in place. “We have to get you a gauze dressing, this won’t work well enough. Is the pressure okay?”

“Yes,” she answered, biting her lip.

Jaime got lost in the image of her teeth pressing against her lip in such a display of shyness. He brushed his thumb against it, feeling the soft, wet skin under his fingertip and Brienne’s warm breath on his hand. His cock stirred in his boxers, which did not go unnoticed by her, since her hips rested on his.

“I can’t help it,” he crooned with a grin. “Look at you.”

She was not even wearing any underwear; he noticed when she shifted and the covers fell off entirely, revealing her lower body. He covered her mouth with his, sneaking his tongue in her mouth and dragging it across hers, as slowly and tortuously as he could manage while taking one of her nipples between his fingers. He relished the way she shifted against him when he applied just the right amount of pressure.

Brienne’s skin turned to gooseflesh when he kissed his way over the right side of her neck, licking her little by little and moving up his hips to rub his erection against her through his boxers. She moaned softly and Jaime moved to sit behind her, encircling her waist with his arms. The way the bandages covered her shoulder made it so that most of her tattoo was concealed—all but the stag’s antlers. The branches of a tree flashed in his mind.

“I dreamed of you like this,” he told her softly, nuzzling his nose against her ear. Her loose hairs tickled his face, some of them catching in his beard.

She turned her head to look at him curiously. “Oh?”

He’d sunk deep into the water that had flooded his dream, had been unable to swim away, the life draining from him. Out of nowhere had come the stag, the helping hand, to bring air into his lungs and pull him back to life. “You’d come to save me.”

Jaime laid her down on her side, making sure her injured shoulder was facing upwards to avoid any painful strain. He fit himself snugly beside her, his entire body molded into hers, and pulled her knees up to her chest. Taking off his underwear, he positioned himself at her entrance, which was tightly closed from the way her knees were pressed together. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you. Would you like me to humbly pay you for my life?” he purred into her ear.

“Yes,” Brienne replied softly, her cheeks reddening.

Jaime pushed his way inside, his head spinning from the way her walls wrapped around him. He could barely move, so every thrust was slow, languid; he could hear her heavy breaths, feel every inch of her with every inch of himself. Keeping such a rhythm was as rewarding as it was difficult—the pressure on his cock begged for his release, but the speed made it so that he could relax between every plunge, and feel her clench and let go in turn whenever he brushed against the right spot.

He let out a loud breath as the beads of sweat gathered on his temple and slid down his face. They kept going the same way for a long time, the pleasure increasing at a constant, maddening pace. Jaime’s lips met Brienne’s nipples, the tip of his tongue came out to taste them, to tease them, and her moans, so close to his ear, made him lose all sense of control. They had never made love like this, it was always too passionate and rushed, too frantic, they were always so desperate for each other.

He swallowed hard, his head beginning to spin, and looked straight into her eyes. Her pupils were dilated, but there was still something in them that told him of those words that hung unspoken between them, like a pendulum swinging back and forth, its weight dancing both ways. Her mouth was slightly open, her chest flushed and damp, and she did not look away from him. Never leaving her gaze, he pulled out of her to the tip and shoved himself as deeply as he would go. Brienne came with a gasp, and he finally let his release wash over him, his cock swelling and his seed spilling inside her in surges. Everything went completely white for moments as he struggled to catch his breath. When he pulled out, he watched the fluid drip out of her, saw the way the sweat glimmered on her freckled skin as it was touched by the light. She seemed utterly satisfied, and all he could think about was how she belonged to him, how she was all his.

Brienne lay back against the pillow, and he traced his finger around her navel. “Why did you come to my bed?” he asked her cheekily. “You always liked yours much better for this . . .”

“You took my pillow,” she replied, her tone almost apathetic.

Jaime could hardly believe the divergence between what her eyes said—what her own body said—and the dry words that came out of her mouth. But if this was her way of being mad, letting him get inside her the way he pleased, having her pressed against every inch of his skin, so be it. He could live with that.

“It smells like you,” he said in a soft tone, lips brushing her cheek.

She turned her back on him for a response. Though he wanted to believe her coldness would go away, a part of him raised an alert. Something inside her had shifted, like a piece of her had been ripped away by Ramsay Snow. By his threats, by the women in his wall, by the knowledge of what Jeyne Poole had gone through on behalf of Arya. It was as if Brienne was falling apart by the crushing weight of their mission to find that young woman with auburn hair and blue eyes. _What have I done to you by bringing you into this?_

All he could do was hold her around the waist and close his eyes, trying to get some rest.

Jaime must have dozed off, because when he opened his eyes again, the clock on his bedside table read 8 AM. He was alone once more, clueless as to when Brienne had left his side. When he stepped out of his room, he found her in the hallway, coming out of the bathroom with her stolen blanket wrapped around herself. He had not seen it since she’d left for Braavos; in spite of how small her travel bag had been, she had taken it with her.

This time, when their gazes met, it was his fire against her ice. There was a hint of regret in Brienne that Jaime couldn’t yet understand; it was like he was getting to know her all over again, whoever she had become in that cabin. The only way he could think of to silence the feeling that something was awry was to pull her back to him, back until they were in the kitchen, until he lay her down on the table. She complied with his guidance with a slight hesitancy, but he did not want to give her space or time to think. Now his lust was stained by anger, by the sensation that minute by minute she was slipping from his grasp.

He uncovered her and spread her legs, placing them to either side of him. When he tried to slip a finger inside her, he found that her skin was cold and fresh. _We’ve hardly been together and you’re already washing yourself off of me_. Jaime frowned and this time Brienne averted her gaze, as if she had not expected him to notice.

After that it all happened in a blur, like they had both set out to run in circles, one after the other and never arriving anywhere. Jaime leaned down and spread her folds, setting out to lick and suckle on her nub with patience. She moaned and gasped, her hands fiercely grasping his hair. His fingertips brushed against her opening, feeling the way she grew increasingly wet for him.

 _You’re wrong to think you can slip from my grasp_.

When his cock slipped inside her, he set aside all kindness and shoved himself into her as roughly as he pleased, hearing her groan loudly in pain as much as pleasure. Soon enough her walls expanded to accommodate him once more, and with every slap of skin on skin he felt his control over her increasing, ignoring the pain on his bruised ribs from the effort. _You can’t hide from me_. He placed his arm around her lower back and pulled her hips up, closer towards his, every thrust digging deeper into her, the friction becoming almost painful around him. Jaime’s teeth ran along her collarbone, his fingers reached between her legs to stroke her, and her breath accelerated as he took a nipple between his teeth. She was so warm around him, so tight, if he could just focus on that feeling and forget everything else . . . His cock swelled and he was almost overwhelmed, but he held back, wanting more. He pushed harder into her, rammed against her, burying his cock as deep as it would go, until he heard her whimper.

Brienne dug her nails into his back, and he slowed down to a halt, as if waking from a dream. Her gaze was pleading for the first time since he’d met her. “Do you want me to stop?” he whispered, slightly ashamed.

“No,” she replied, taking him back inside at a gentler pace. “Just slow down.”

Jaime complied, adjusted to the rhythm she set, until they were moving together. Brienne hooked her ankles on his back and relaxed tangibly around him. Sweat dripped down her neck and on her temples, and soon she moaned again, all pleasure this time. Only when every trace of his forcefulness was gone did she ask him for more, asked him to go deeper in a whisper. Everything she craved, he did, and he realized he had it all backwards. He’d had it backwards all along.

He lay on top of her to thrust fully inside, felt her reach her climax and stopped to let her enjoy the sensation. As his cheek pressed against hers, Jaime realized a tear was making its way down her face. Half of him wanted to ignore it and continue, his cock aching with built-up tension, while the other told him that he should stop.

His heart beat frantically, and he knew it was not just because of the intensity of their fucking. It was a dark, slithering thing that was moving towards him, biding its time, counting the seconds.

His worse half won out and he continued to push inside her. It was not long before he came and filled her with all that he was, almost as if daring her to wash herself a second time. _Every time you turn me away, I’ll claim you all over again_. Panting and full of dread, he looked up at her face.

There was an apology written in her eyes.

He gritted his teeth; his stomach twisted.

“Jaime,” Brienne whispered at last, her hand cupping his bruised face with painful tenderness. “I’m leaving Winterfell.”

* * *

The hours of the morning passed as if Jaime were in a daze, and by noon the rain had come again, accompanied by thunder. He had not uttered a single word since Brienne had broken the news on him, though so many questions burned in his brain. Questions about the investigation, about how they could possibly continue to work, about how she could be so selfish, how she could be such a coward.

“What about Sansa?” almost came out of his lips, but then he realized what he truly wished to ask was, “What about us?” Brienne’s attitude admitted no weakness; the tone of her voice had been definitive. Unlike Cersei, Brienne never used ultimatums to manipulate him into doing her will. She would never speak those words if she had not thought them out analytically, carefully, like everything else she did. She would never toy with him; play games with him.

But she would tear him apart all the same.

She had been putting away her things for the past hour. Twice he had neared the room and stood by her door, while she dutifully packed her clothes and computer equipment. The last time he approached her, she was placing her laptop in her bag, the last of her belongings before stepping out of his life for good.

The last glint of the LanCorp businessman in him told him to think of a strategy, to devise an argument that would appeal to her logic. To speak of the Blackfish, of her contract, of her responsibilities, of seeing things to the end after half a year working together in the project. But then his mind flew back to their first meeting in her apartment, when she was just an ugly, manly computer geek, before she’d turned his life around, before she had settled deep under his skin.

_“Evenstar often works with freelancers, and freelancers come and go as they please.”_

Brienne closed the travel bag and threw on her leather jacket, zipping it up to the top. She tied up her motorcycle boots, picked up her helmet from the closet and put it on, retrieved her keys from beside the door. All along Jaime remained quiet, looking at her with a frown, a knot tightly built up in his throat.

Brienne jumped on her motorcycle, which roared as it came to life, the sludge splashing against the tires. Without looking back, she drove away, leaving behind the cold, isolated place that she’d called home for months.

The blanket that she had taken from him was still sprawled on the table, damp from their sweat, from his seed.

 _I love you, geek_ , Jaime should have said. _Stay. Be with me. Let’s find Sansa_.

But it was too late for that now. The rain had washed away the trail of her bike in the mud.


	19. Cover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: [Hole - Northern Star](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=srALym8j9MA) | [Lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/hole/northernstar.html) | Beta'ed by [YellowDelaney](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowDelaney/pseuds/YellowDelaney)

Chapter 19: Cover

_It doesn’t matter how good the enemy’s weapons are. If he can’t see you, he can’t hit you. Cover, cover, cover. Make sure you’re never exposed._

* * *

The fucking sunshine that lit up his bedroom was making him want to throw the glass of bourbon on the nightstand through the window.

During the past three days, Jaime had thought more than once about moving to Brienne’s now vacant room, but the mere idea was absurd. Just walking past it, with the door wide open and not a single thing to indicate that someone had inhabited it, made the anger bubble inside him. It was last night that he had decided to shut it for good, pretending that it was just part of the wall. He had also made sure to throw out the endless reserves of Red Bull in the kitchen, her bathroom products and two pairs of her underwear that he had found under his bed.

Jaime removed the pillow that was covering his head to check his cell phone for missed calls, but all he could see was the time—one in the afternoon. At some point he had tried to get out of bed only to become infuriated by the sight of the thrice-damned blanket on top of the kitchen table, and climb back under the sheets to resume his sleep.

The first day after Brienne’s departure, he had convinced himself that he’d made the right choice by remaining silent when she left him. She’d had the nerve to step all over him, and he had managed to keep his pride intact by not asking her to stay. That pride lasted a good twelve hours, while he catalogued the information on the wall that would no longer serve the investigation, head held high. Then the nighttime had come; his bed had been cold and far too big for him, and Brienne’s scent on his sheets had him running to Winter Town for a bottle of bourbon.

Since then the weekend had passed, and he had not yet managed to make himself useful for anything more than burning documents that were no longer necessary. He had called and called Brienne until the phone was overheating in his hand, leaving three or four or ten messages, which ranged from curses to apologies to telling her how well he would fare without her, that he could perfectly continue the research by himself.

At last, Jaime had grown sick and tired of the same cycle. He stood and threw away the remaining bags of trash, emptied out the rest of the bourbon in the sink and flung Brienne’s blanket in her room, which he once more closed. He set out to clean the house and write down the shopping list, including a good pack of cigarettes at the bottom, then spent the evening making a plan of what his next move should be in the search for Sansa.

Brynden Tully received Jaime in his study mid-morning, watching him behind a pair of reading glasses while sorting through a pile of documents on his desk. “What brings you here, Lannister?” the man inquired.

“I’ve come to talk about the investigation.”

Jaime sat in front of his desk and spent a good forty minutes telling him the story of what had gone down in Ramsay Snow’s cabin. The Blackfish listened intently, surprise written all over his face at the news that the missing women had been murdered by the bastard. Knowing that Tully was no fool, Jaime told him that he’d been the one to kill Ramsay, that Brienne had saved his life and they would monitor the Night’s Watch investigation to make sure all three of them remained uninvolved. He had no doubt in his mind that the Blackfish would keep the secret; he had covered for them on the night of the incident, before even knowing exactly what had happened. It was a strange sort of trust, but trust nonetheless.

As soon as they were done catching up, Jaime focused on the future of the search.

“Since Arya’s trail led nowhere, just like Ramsay Snow’s, all that’s left is finding Sansa. Now we know that she was never in the north, but all we have to go on is the fact that Littlefinger took her. I think it would be wise to research the manner of his death and its parallels to the Frey murders.” Jaime leaned back on the chair. “I don’t think there’s much else we can do right now.”

The Blackfish nodded. “Agreed.”

Jaime’s hand fisted in his lap, trying to bite his tongue and failing monumentally. “What about Brienne?”

“What about her?”

“She’s not answering my calls,” Jaime explained, slightly humiliated that he was even discussing the subject with the older man, but he needed to know how they were to proceed.

Tully’s tone was amused as he said, “You should’ve kept it in your pants.” Jaime gritted his teeth, ready for a retort, but the older man’s expression became serious, almost irritated. “I told you I didn’t want your personal relationship to affect the investigation, did I not?” He stood from the chair and gazed out the window towards the sunlit greenhouse. “Miss Tarth contacted me to assure me that she will continue the research.”

“I know that,” Jaime interrupted with a frown. “She’s stubborn. She’ll never give up until she finds Sansa.”

“ _However_ ,” Tully continued, raising his voice slightly. “She has asked for two personal weeks while she settles back in King’s Landing. It is no wonder, after what you’ve told me today, that she’s in dire need of a break. I’m sure you could benefit from it as well.”

“A break? The longer we wait, the colder the case grows.”

“Colder than a decade?” He laughed. “Don’t forget that I need you to finish the book. You should take this time to focus on that, while the recent events are fresh in your mind. Miss Tarth told me that once she was ready, she would let you know directly what your new means of communication would be.”

 _The book about the Red Wedding_. Jaime had forgotten all about it. Back when he had first come to Winterfell, his plan had been to write it as the case progressed, relying on the facts that were proven as time went by. But then Brienne had arrived, making things move along faster than he imagined. There was hardly time for anything but the investigation, and every moment of leisure had been spent between the sheets.

 _It’s distracting_ , he recalled her saying the day she had discovered that Arya was in Braavos. The truth was that for Jaime, if anything was distracting, it was everything but being with her. He could have drowned in her happily, given her his time, his attention, his future. But that was not quite what she wanted. That part of Brienne he could never figure out, and now that ship had sailed.

Jaime couldn’t allow himself to dwell on the thought; he had to block her from his mind if he wanted to be any use. _Fuck it_ , he thought angrily. _I started this on my own_. He had only resorted to Brienne because he thought it would be helpful to have a second point of view, not to mention her abilities, to disentangle the knot of the Red Wedding. But at the end of the day, he was more experienced and perfectly capable of continuing by himself.

“I’ll have the book ready when the time comes,” he assured the Blackfish, standing and heading for the door. “And I’ll also find Sansa, whether Brienne keeps working on this or not.”

As he made his way back to the house, Jaime spotted a flurry of gray in the distance. There was some sort of animal near the porch of the house, half-concealed by the trees and bushes around it. Jaime squinted, trying to make it out. It looked like a dog, or a wolf, but wild creatures hardly managed to make their way through the fences that separated the estate from the Wolfswood. Then again, that was back when Farlen had been healthy and making his rounds twice a day.

He reached for the biggest branch he could find on the path, approaching with caution. When he had managed to close in on it, he realized it was not a wolf—it was a direwolf, living and breathing before him. The most surprising thing was the presence of a pink collar around its big, thick neck. The creature’s tongue was lolling out of its mouth, making it look more like a big puppy than the wild animal it was.

Jaime dialed Tully’s phone. The older man picked up immediately. “There’s a direwolf out here,” he said quietly, trying not to get the animal to make sudden movements. “It has a collar, what’s that about?”

“Oh. That’s Lady,” the Blackfish replied with nonchalance. “She was Sansa’s wolf back when my niece lived here. Farlen took care of her, along with the dogs, but since he’s been gone and Palla took over the task, Lady keeps breaking out of her kennel. She doesn’t like to be locked up.”

 _What the fuck is wrong with these northerners?_ “What am I supposed to do with a direwolf on my damn porch?”

“Feed her?”

“Feed— _Sorry_ , I’m out of horses to feed the beast. Send someone to take it away.”

“ _Her_ , take her away. There’s no one available right now. Palla went to Winter Town, and the rest of the staff is busy. Deal with it, Lannister.” The Blackfish hung up.

 _Seven hells_.

After Jaime took a few steps, the beast turned its head towards him, ears up in alert. Though it was certainly big when compared to a wolf, it was much smaller than the dead direwolf he’d found in the woods. It approached Jaime with curiosity, keeping its distance. _It’s as scared of me as I am of it ripping me apart with those teeth_. The wolf whimpered softly and lowered its head, looking up at him with its yellow eyes. Jaime dropped the stick, against his better judgment, and allowed the animal to come closer and smell his shoes. Then it sat on its haunches, tongue lolling out again. _Lady. What kind of name is that for a direwolf?_

Jaime snorted, disbelieving of the wolf’s behavior. Standing there, watching it, a faded memory sprung to mind. It was from that day in the Wolfswood, when he’d been running away from an anonymous hunter whose face later became that of Ramsay Snow’s, back when Jaime had been dashing towards the house and a new gunshot had nearly ended his life. He was sure there was no way to get out of the situation—not with the hunter’s hounds trailing after him.

The urgency of his situation, and the later events that day with Brienne had made him throw the memory in the back of his mind. Soon after the menacing shot, he had stumbled on a branch and fallen, and thought himself lost. But out of nowhere, like some sort of miracle, had come the nostalgic howling of a wolf. As Jaime had stood and dusted himself off, he’d heard aggressive growls in the distance; some sort of a struggle, but he had ignored it to resume his escape.

 _“She doesn’t like to be locked up_.”

Slowly, Jaime knelt beside the wolf, scanning its fur without touching it. It hardly moved at all, so he managed to spot a big scar on the side of its neck. _It can’t be_ , he thought, convinced that the idea was mad. _This crap is all in my head_.

A few hours later, the creature was still outside the house, so he threw a raw steak on the porch while making his dinner. The wolf ate it contentedly, and soon fell asleep with its head between its paws.

Jaime couldn’t seem to get some damned time to himself.

* * *

Brienne’s first week in King’s Landing felt longer than a whole month.

When she had taken the first step into her apartment, the place had felt completely foreign to her, like something had not been quite right about it, the way a crooked painting would stand out. Her scarce furniture was covered in dust, and there was an unpleasant smell coming from her bedroom. Soon she realized it was because more than one rat had taken residence in the place, so the likelihood that she would find one of them in the rattraps she had left was high.

With a sigh, she had set out to work, cursing her landlord for his apathy. It had taken her an entire weekend to clean up and make the place remotely appropriate for habitation. Then she’d had to run inane errands like grocery shopping, connecting and cleaning her fridge, and going through her mail. Given that her electricity bills had not been forwarded to Winterfell, she had to spend her first night in darkness.

All along, Brienne had made an inhuman effort to keep her cell phone off. There was only one person that would try to contact her, since she had informed Brynden Tully that she would be taking a break. It was not something she wanted to think about, so she occupied her mind with any and every task available, including having a cup of coffee with Mr. Goodwin back at Evenstar Security to let him know that she was doing okay and would continue to be off work for the time being.

It was a few days later that she decided to turn her computer back on, feeling relief at the sensation of the keyboard beneath her fingertips, while at the same time cringing at the things in the hard drive that would stir unwanted memories. She focused on the present instead, monitoring the latest activity of the Night’s Watch regarding Farlen and Ramsay Snow.

By now the police had discovered the body of Roose Bolton’s son from the incessant barking of his hounds in the kennels once the food ran out. The noise had reached the cabins on the other side of the lake, and the cops had rushed to the scene. All of the notes concerning the case filled Brienne with relief; the plan she and Jaime had devised had worked without issue. The heroin had made it seem like a drug exchange, which was not suspicious given the hushed knowledge that Bolton had built his empire on drug trafficking.

As soon as the police spotted the photographs in the cell, the investigation had revolved completely around Snow’s victims. Brienne made sure that the files of each of them had been updated by the detectives before she removed every single trail of the case from her laptop. There was nothing more to do about Ramsay or the women now that Brienne knew he had never had Sansa. All that was left in the computer afterwards was the information about her disappearance and the Red Wedding.

Brienne’s two weeks on break were nearly over by the time she decided to turn her cell phone back on, disconcerted by the voicemails and texts and e-mails that showed up on her screen with Jaime’s painfully beautiful face next to them. It took all her strength to delete them one by one without checking the contents. She knew him too well now, knew that he’d protest and curse her and call just to pour out his anger. He would accuse her of leaving the work unfinished, would berate her for running away. But no matter how much she wished she could move on, Sansa would appear in her dreams, asking her to keep looking, begging for her help.

When she was not dreaming of Jaime, that was.

It was only back in King’s Landing that Brienne had allowed herself to cry out her despair and her anger, dreading the void left inside her by Jaime once she had come back to the capital. For a whole night, Brienne had considered her options back in Winterfell, all of them, before telling him of her departure. No matter how she spun the situation, she always reached the same conclusion. She had let Jaime become a presence in her world, someone she trusted, someone she would risk her life for, as she had proved by going into Ramsay’s cabin. She had blindly fallen for him, setting aside so many of her fears, her insecurities; she had given him every single thing she had to give.

That would not have been a problem if it weren’t for the fact that Jaime was impulsive, and careless, and there would be no limits when he had set out to reach a goal. All Brienne had known in her life was love and loss. She had loved and lost a mother that she could hardly remember, loved and lost a brother who had drowned when she was little, loved and lost her father when he was all that she had left in the world. Then a beacon of hope had appeared in the form of Renly, who had been the first person to help her without expecting a benefit. She thought she had loved him, but Jaime had been right. Now she knew that it was all an illusion, the mere crush of a young girl.

Love was the way her heart had nearly jumped out of her chest she had found out that Jaime was in danger, it was the urgency that drove her straight into Ramsay’s territory with no regard for her own life. It was the gaze they had shared in Jaime’s bed the next morning while they had been together, the way he had cared for her, how soon afterwards he had grasped at the last straw to take control of her when he’d known in his gut that her words were coming.

She could not bear to lose Jaime the way she had lost everyone else, and he would never cease to be impulsive, to risk his life on behalf of a trail. It was who he was, and she loved him for it, so all she could do was leave.

The phone rang beside her, and her heart skipped a beat. She looked at the screen through the corner of her eye, afraid to find Jaime’s golden hair and bright green eyes, only to see Hunt’s face instead.

“Hello?” Brienne answered.

“If it isn’t Miss Tarth,” Hyle told her with amusement. “When were you planning to tell me that you’d come back to the city?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Tell you?”

“Well, if not for the sake of your bed, in the name our mutually beneficial side-business. I thought you’d be gone for a year.”

Brienne rolled her eyes, wondering if perhaps she should have just ignored his phone call. “I can’t work on anything right now. I came back early, but I’m still involved in an active investigation. I’ll let you know when I’m available for other cases.”

Before she could hang up, he added, “How about drinks, then? Come on. We haven’t seen each other in like six months.”

“Not interested,” she mumbled, and ended the call.

Brynden Tully came to mind, and along with him, the future of her investigation with Jaime. Truth be told, for the first time she had no idea where to start. Perhaps she was simply worn out from the many disappointments over the past weeks, from feeling like she and Jaime been swimming in the middle of an ocean, never reaching the shore, never coming to touch something real. ‘Where is Sansa?’ had been the question when they’d started out, and was still the same after such a long time.

The phone rang again. Annoyed, she picked up. “What?”

“Hey, you don’t have to be rude. Has the north made you colder, my dear partner?” Hyle said.

“Seriously, I have no time for this . . .”

“ _Fine_ , fine. I’m trying to be nice. I wanted to thank you for the kid you recommended me a few months ago. He’s been pretty good. Not as good as you, or as quick, but he’s gotten a lot better at this.”

“He has?” Brienne cursed herself, realizing that she had not talked to Pod since she’d contacted him to run the script that formatted her hard drive when it was stolen. It made her feel guilty. “I’m glad,” she said at last, her tone softening. “Thanks for giving him a chance. He deserves it.”

“So . . . drinks?”

She hung up again.

* * *

Podrick Payne had been a boy of sixteen when Brienne had met him. He was short and skinny for his age, and he was almost as quiet as Brienne. Even though it had been years since she had started teaching him about hacking, she could never help but think of him as a teenager, eager to learn and more loyal than virtually anyone else she’d ever met.

Brienne had decided that they should meet in the café a block away from the _Millennium_ building. During the time she had shadowed Jaime, she’d come to spend a lot of time there. The burgers were amongst her favorite, and her regular waitress was quite nice. Polite people did not appear often in Brienne’s peculiar day-to-day.

Once they had discussed the kind of work Pod had been doing for Hunt and all of his new skills, they ordered their food. Brienne couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride seeing the young man come to his own. Though he was not a natural with computers, Pod was very determined and patient, and usually managed to achieve his goals no matter how long it took.

“How was Winterfell, Miss Brienne?” Pod asked once the waitress left. Brienne could never make him drop the habit of calling her that. She’d grown used to it at this point, and it did not truly bother her, knowing that he did it as a sign of respect.

“I’m actually not done with that project yet, Pod,” she replied, drinking her milkshake.

“May I ask what it’s about?” he inquired timidly.

Brienne smiled. “Sure. Do you know anything about the Red Wedding? The massacre that occurred at the Twins a decade ago?” He nodded, so she continued, “Well, tell no one about this, but we believe Sansa Stark is alive, since her body was never found after the incident. We’re looking for her.”

Confusion clouded Pod’s face. “Sansa Stark?”

“Yes, Eddard Stark’s daughter. He was the owner of Winter Motors.”

“I know, miss,” Pod said immediately. “I went to school with Sansa.”

That took Brienne aback. “What do you mean?”

“We were both in Red Keep Elementary during the year she spent in King’s Landing.” She couldn’t quite grasp how an orphan had gone to such an expensive private school. Pod must have noticed the lack of understanding on her face, because he explained, “I was given a scholarship for my achievements in the National Math Competition.”

“Oh,” Brienne replied simply, stunned that she had missed such a connection. Then again she had not deemed it necessary to check out the list of students that went to school with Sansa, and she had never investigated Pod’s past out of respect to his privacy. “Did you meet her personally?”

“I did.” He cleared his throat. “She was . . . not very pleasant when she first arrived. But after the death of her father, she was lonely and sad, so the other girls didn’t really hang out with her, and her sister always played soccer with the boys. We played cards once during recess.”

Brienne’s heart warmed upon hearing him say such a thing. He was almost as socially awkward as Brienne, so she understood his difficulty to make friends. The fact that Sansa had spent time with him spoke of the girl’s kindness, too.

“I can’t believe I didn’t know this,” she told him as a stream of new ideas flowed into her brain. “Do you remember what she looked like? Her voice?”

“I do.” Pod nodded. “Maybe there’s a way I can help you?”

She considered it a moment, deciding that there could be no harm in adding another member to their team, if Brynden Tully allowed it. “I could really use a fresh pair of eyes.”

“Where do you think she might be?” he asked as the waitress arrived with their orders.

“I don’t know. The man who abducted her visited the Eyrie immediately afterwards, but he was alone at the time.” Brienne thanked the waitress and waited until she walked away before continuing, “We don’t know where he could have dropped her off.” Brienne frowned slightly, starting to consider a new approach. “Pod, where would you start?”

Pod looked down, lost in thought. “To get to the Eyrie he must have visited the Vale first, I guess.”

“Yes, but there are no records of his activity there. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

He smiled shyly. “I think . . . if it were me . . . I’d start by going there.”

The idea sounded almost ludicrous to Brienne. She had hardly ever been out of her apartment when investigating a case, and other than Braavos and Bear Island, it had never been necessary to visit another city to uncover information. Usually, if she could not find a trail through her computer, the plan was futile. Then again, she had never really tried to get into Baelish’s shoes. If it were Brienne traveling with a fugitive, she would make sure that no transactions were registered, either, until she was convinced that her companion was safely hidden. She recalled Jaime’s gunshot injury, how they had agreed that it was not a good idea to visit a hospital, and he was not even a fugitive then. Baelish must have left Sansa somewhere in the Vale while he visited the Eyrie, but how could Brienne discover the exact location?

“Pod, are you doing anything this week?” Brienne blurted out.

“I’m not, I don’t think.”

“You are now,” she told him, her hope in the quest coming alive again. “You’re coming with me to the Vale.”

* * *

If someone had told Jaime half a year ago that right now he’d be living in Winterfell and looking through biology books, he would have laughed in their face.

Alas, that’s what he was doing. At the lack of a response from Brienne, and refusing to call her anymore, he set out to investigate the details of Littlefinger’s death. The break Jaime had taken for two weeks to write the book had lifted a weight off his shoulders; he’d felt like a journalist once more, like he was getting ready to publish a new article for _Millennium_ , instead of chasing his tail with a decade-old mystery.

By now he had begun to grow restless, though, so he had established contact with Jeor Mormont in Bear Island and asked him—more pleadingly than any Lannister should have to—for a contact who could mail Jaime a copy of Petyr Baelish’s coroner report. The document had arrived two days later, and since then he had been studying the details that stood out. Though Littlefinger’s cause of death was respiratory failure, all of his symptoms were almost identical to those of choking on a piece of food, except that nothing had been found when his throat was opened.

It was Jaime’s experience that led the way when he followed the trace. Once, for a _Millennium_ article, he had researched the death of a conservative politician who had been found in much the same manner in a luxurious hotel room in King’s Landing. Said politician was involved in a money laundering business, so Jaime had dug around hoping to identify his associates. Through the discovery that he had been killed with a poison known as the strangler, it was revealed that he had been murdered by a call girl from Lys. Jaime had uncovered so many connections through that information that the article had turned into a full feature, occupying the entirety of the next _Millennium_ issue.

Jaime’s next move was trying to figure out where the components of the strangler could be obtained. It was an extremely rare poison that only a handful of chemists in the world knew how to prepare. He was browsing the last biology book he had gotten his hands on when he stumbled across a picture of the most important plant that composed it. According to the text, the leaves could only be found in the Jade Sea, but in order to age and process them, they had to pass through a distiller that was described in detail. Only a few of them even existed.

There was no doubt in Jaime’s mind that Tyrion would know about a thing like this. If there was anyone who read everything within reach, no matter how random or useless it seemed in the long run, it was his brother. Jaime called him and turned on the speakerphone.

“My dear brother,” Tyrion said as he picked up. “I thought you’d been eaten by the wolves up there, since you’ve decided to ignore the entirety of my existence.”

“Hey,” Jaime greeted, knowing the truth of his brother’s words. “Sorry about that. Been busy with research.”

“You have?” Tyrion asked. “I would’ve never known, since yesterday I caught a glimpse of a certain tall lady who had your attention for the longest time. I didn’t know she was visiting King’s Landing.”

“ _What_?”

Tyrion replied something, but his voice was drowned by the sound of Lady barking in the hallway. The damned wolf had snuck her way into the house one sad look at a time, and she had an annoying tendency of sitting outside the geek’s bedroom and clawing at the door. After doing it for a while, she usually grew tired of Jaime ignoring her and growled to get his attention. It had become the most irritating daily routine in the house.

Jaime covered the speaker. “Hey, get out of there!” he bellowed. She came to the living room with her tail between her legs, and lay at his feet with a whimper.“Sorry— _what_ did you say?” he asked.

“Your beloved girlfriend. I saw her,” Tyrion replied. “Well, I figure it’s her. Blonde, blue eyes, manly frame, at least six feet tall. The exact way you described her when you thought her absurd, though I don’t recall if that was before or after you started sleeping with her.” He laughed. “She was having lunch with some guy at the café near our building.”

His brother had pressed the wrong button. The anger Jaime had managed to keep under control in the past days started to resurface. “Could you describe him for me?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Young lad, probably nineteen or twenty at most. Black straight hair.”

Relief washed over him. The brown-haired man Jaime had seen leaving her apartment when he had first met her was nothing like that, and he was nearing his thirties. “Well, either way, that’s none of my business now.”

“It looked like your business there for a second.”

“It’s not,” Jaime growled.

“Trouble in paradise?”

Jaime’s tone became dead serious. “Just drop it.”

Tyrion apparently took the hint, because he decided to move on, “Fine. But you were the one who called me, so . . . what can I do for you?”

Jaime took his time to explain the entire story of Littlefinger’s death and what he knew about the strangler. As soon as Jaime mentioned the component, Tyrion expressed his amusement. The majority of the distillers were located in Lys—all but one. One that was located in the university with the most advanced botanical research department: Highgarden College.

Jaime’s phone became a lifeline then. After saying goodbye to Tyrion, he contacted Hoster Blackwood, his IT assistant back when he worked at LanCorp. Hoster had always been proactive and reliable, so Jaime did not hesitate to ask him to dig up some details for him. There was an entire department in the company dedicated to monitoring the most important families that LanCorp kept business with, though nothing as advanced—or illegal—as Brienne did. Through a series of pointers, Jaime learned that Margaery Tyrell had visited the Vale twice recently, both times near important events.

The assassination of the Freys in Riverrun, and Littlefinger’s death.

* * *

When Jaime’s call came, Brienne’s hands started sweating, and the blood rushed through her veins like a waterfall.

It was not as though she hadn’t wanted to contact him, like she had promised she would once her two weeks were done. Brienne had made sure to inform the Blackfish of her plan to visit the Vale and try a more hands-on approach on the search, but when it came to notifying Jaime, she had been paralyzed for minutes while staring at the phone. It had made her feel like a teenager, but she could not think of what to say or how to behave. In the end, she had made up one excuse after another, and pushed off the task one day at a time.

She and Pod had been in the Vale for four days now. So far they had mostly walked the streets, trying to get a feeling of the city and its dynamics. Centuries ago, the Vale was accessed through a road called the High Road, but the years made the rocky formation unstable and impassable. As technology advanced, the Honor Airport was built in the Vale, allowing the city to bloom now that it was able to open its trade to the rest of Westeros, no longer depending on ships that could take a long time to make their round trips.

Pod and Brienne had taken a flight to the Vale, and settled in a mid-range inn where they each took a room and were served breakfast and dinner. In the mornings they set out to explore the main avenues. The city was quite small, with a population of around half a million, and the weather was cool, but much nicer than Winterfell. During the past two days, she and Pod had split to cover two of the busiest places in the city: the largest supermarket in the Vale, and a popular nightclub full of people Sansa’s age. They had not yet managed to spot her, but Brienne still felt like she was finally making some progress, going straight to the last place that she was confident Sansa had visited.

By the time she came out of her daze, the phone had ceased to ring on the nightstand of her room. She swallowed hard and fixated her stare on the screen, both angry and infatuated by Jaime’s striking face.

Then it rang again, but this time she picked up.

At first, it was silence on both ends. _Is he as nervous as I am?_ she wondered, but that was hardly possible. “Um . . . hello?” she said softly.

“Hello, Brienne.”

The sound of his voice made the hairs on her arm stand on end and her cheeks heat up. She could be such a stupid girl. “Jaime . . .”

“I assume you’re working now?” he inquired without the hint of playfulness that was always present in his calls. “Unless you’re still on break.”

It took her a moment to put a sentence together. “I’m working. I’m . . . I’m at the Vale now.”

There was a pause. “Right. I discovered something. Figured you’d be interested.”

“Yes?”

“Margaery Tyrell visited the Vale twice in the past year, first a few days before the Frey murders, and then a month before Littlefinger’s death. I also found out that he was killed with a poison called the strangler. One of the rare distillers capable of processing it is in Highgarden College, where Margaery’s brother Willas happens to work.”

“The strangler?” She had no memory of ever hearing about such a thing, but she was glad for the news. It meant that they were getting closer, and confirmed that it was the perfect time for Brienne to have set foot in the Vale. The girl in her wondered if it was fate that had brought the same destination to their interest, but that was a foolish thing to believe. They were just good at their jobs, so they had independently reached the same conclusion. “Well . . . I’m at the Vale.”

“You said that, geek,” Jaime replied, slightly amused. As though he had just noticed the way he’d regarded her, he continued in a serious tone, “That’s your business. It would help if you could access Margaery’s credit card records so we can get an idea of where she stayed. It might narrow down the area where Sansa could be hiding.”

“Jaime—”

“Kingslayer, remember?” he cut her off.

“I . . .”

There was a noise in the background, something between a howl and a bark. It sounded like it was right next to Jaime, which was quite puzzling, but it was not as though Brienne could ask him what it was about. “I’m very busy,” he said in a sharp tone. “Call me if you find anything.”

Then it was all silence. Brienne stared at the screen for the longest time, feeling the regret creep into her veins. _This is what you did_ , she forced herself to remember. _This is what you chose_. But she had never imagined that Jaime could be colder than he had been when they had first met, and it left a bitter taste in her mouth.

* * *

Brienne spent that night hacking into Margaery Tyrell’s credit card balance, painfully aware that she was Renly’s wife. She felt uncomfortable meddling into their private lives, but she had to remember that this might lead to a real breakthrough in their search. She studied all the expenses during the time period that Jaime had specified, and set up a program to point out the locations of all the transactions in a map of the Vale, giving her a radius of Margaery’s position.

It was with a certain dismay that Brienne realized that was as far as she could take the trail. During their brainstorming sessions back at the house, Jaime had always been the one to make the connection between the data and any public figure in Westeros, since he knew so many people from his time at LanCorp. All Brienne knew about the Vale was that the Eyrie had belonged to the Arryns for generations, but other than that, she was drawing a blank. She Googled the important families in the area, but there were too many to sort through, and it would save a lot of time to know which of them were close to the Tyrells.

Brienne sighed and dialed Jaime’s number.

“What is it?” a hoarse, annoyed voice responded. She’d heard it many times before, when Jaime woke in the night to find her typing away in the kitchen. She gazed at the watch and only then realized that it was 3 AM. _Damn_.

“Sorry about the time,” she said apologetically. “I hadn’t noticed it was so late.”

It took him a moment to reply, but when he did, his tone was more light-hearted. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“I triangulated Margaery’s position, but I don’t know who she’s familiar with in the area. She didn’t stay at a hotel, so she must have stayed with an acquaintance.”

Brienne heard some shuffling around, as if Jaime had put the phone down. The sound of his computer coming on rang loudly. “Send me the e-mail.”

“Well, I—”

“You already did,” Jaime snapped. “Got it.”

She frowned, disbelieving of his attitude. It was not as if she were calling for a personal matter, she was contacting him on behalf of the investigation. “You don’t have to be such an ass,” Brienne half-growled.

“ _I’m_ the ass?” The scorn dripped from his voice. “I really don’t think you want to go there.”

“Look, we need to get along if we want to find Sansa. I just think you could be a little nicer.”

He scoffed. “Nicer. Right. As nice as you were?”

“You weren’t all that kind yourself, Jaime.”

He remained silent after that. Brienne did not want to mention the roughness with which he’d taken her on the table the last time, his anger, how intent he had been on hurting her. Deep down she had known that she would hurt him, too, so she had let him, up until the point where she could not stand it anymore.

Brienne was expecting to hear an enthusiastic ‘fuck you’ at the other end for bringing it up, but it never came.

“Let’s drop it,” Jaime said at last, in a tone that admitted no protest. “I’m checking the map. Margaery must have been staying with the Royces.”

“I don’t understand. Don’t they live in Runestone?”

“They did, until about seven years ago. Longbow Hall was sold on auction through the Tyrells’ real estate company after the death of the last Hunter, who had no next of kin. The Royces acquired it and it was Margaery who closed the deal, so naturally, she became acquainted with them. It’s part of their courtesy to welcome her in their home.”

“Wait . . . do the Royces know Baelish?”

“Of course.”

Her mind raced, wondering if Baelish could have convinced the Royces to take Sansa in while he visited the Eyrie after the Red Wedding. If they had, was it a long-term thing, or had it been temporary? Baelish had stayed at the Eyrie overnight, and he’d been alone when he arrived in King’s Landing. “Sansa could be with them,” Brienne said softly, lost in thought. “She could be with the Royces right now, three blocks from my inn.”

Jaime’s tone relaxed. “She could very well be.”

“There’s nothing I can do but monitor the entrances, and it might be days before I catch a glimpse of her, if she’s even there.” Brienne was sure Jaime knew her well enough to understand that this was as far as her cries of help went.

After a moment of thought, he instructed, “Be ready to head there tomorrow. Well, later today, considering it’s 3 AM. I’ll talk to Nestor Royce on behalf of _Millennium_. I’ll tell him we’re interested in interviewing him to write a piece about his family and his estate. He’s a social climber, so he’ll be thrilled to show off his wealth.” He paused. “You’re now _Millennium’s_ photographer in charge of taking pictures of the mansion. It will give you access to most of the areas, and a chance to see everyone in the household.”

Sometimes Brienne could hardly believe Jaime’s cleverness. Everyone thought that he just played detective, or that his brother was the only one with a bright mind in the family, but he had come up with a detailed plan in just an instant, whereas Brienne had been puzzled by the problem. It was as if she were the only one who could see how ingeniously he pushed through difficulty.

“Do you understand?” he asked at the lack of a response.

“Yes,” she responded, dropping out of her daze. “I understand. I’ll be ready.”

“I’ll text you the time tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

They fell into a silence where neither of them seemed to have any intention of hanging up. Brienne thought about him in the house back in Winterfell, about the pine trees and the weirwoods, about the cicadas that sang in the night. It was so quiet in the Vale. “Jaime?”

“Yes?”

“Good night,” she finished.

“Good night.”

* * *

The Royces’ estate was three things: big, beautiful, and extremely intimidating.

The mansion where the Blackfish lived looked like a dollhouse in comparison. Longbow Hall must have had at least a hundred rooms, the gardens were ample and full of color, and the brick walls made the place seem like it had been taken right out of an architecture magazine.

In order to play her role of photographer correctly, Brienne had rented the most complex equipment she could find, and made sure to take Pod along as her assistant after explaining the plan thoroughly to him.

When they rang the doorbell, a maid received them. With a very formal welcome, she led them towards the living room, where a buxom woman with brown curly hair awaited them. _Myranda Royce_.

“Good morning,” she greeted in a jovial tone, her eyes widening at the sight of Brienne. “Well, aren’t you big? Is it cold up there?” She giggled.

Brienne made her best effort to force a smile. “Good morning. I’m Brienne Tarth, the photographer from _Millennium_ , and this my assistant, Podrick Payne. We were sent by Jaime Lannister.”

“I know all that,” the hostess said, making a dismissive gesture with her hand. “I’m Myranda Royce, Nestor Royce’s daughter. I run the household. My father is on a trip, so I’ll be giving you the tour of our most humble estate.” The woman batted her eyelashes at Podrick with a lopsided smile. “Aren’t you handsome? Isn’t he, Alayne?”

A young woman who had been sitting on the couch turned around to face them. Brienne had not even noticed her, quietly sipping a cup of tea. Upon catching a glimpse of her, Brienne’s pulse accelerated. _Her eyes, her features_. They had looked so long for auburn hair, but Alayne’s was dark brown, almost black.

“He is, Randa,” Alayne replied with a smile.

Brienne’s gaze searched Pod’s as discreetly as possible. Kneeling as if to tie his shoe, he gave her the slightest of nods.

She was standing before Sansa Stark.


	20. Survivor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: [Florence + the Machine - Blinding](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Da6bBKLPEGg) | [Lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/florencethemachine/blinding.html) | Beta'ed by [YellowDelaney](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowDelaney/pseuds/YellowDelaney)

Chapter 20: Survivor

_“Don’t call me crazy. I’m a survivor. I do what I have to do to survive.”_

* * *

Following Myranda Royce around Longbow Hall felt like nothing short of torture, though Brienne humored the woman all along. She had the outstanding talent of being able to finish nearly every comment with an obnoxious remark about Brienne’s appearance or Pod’s shyness. Alayne had been left behind in the living room, but Myranda had informed them that she was her guest, staying with them while she mourned her father’s death. Brienne had to hide her surprise upon hearing that Baelish had posed as Sansa’s father; her fingers were aching to get into her computer and research the girl’s mysterious identity, wondering how she got by without a single piece of legitimate identification. Without a passport, it would be easy for Baelish to keep her in the Vale, under his control.

The Royce heiress had a love for gossip; it was the first thing Brienne noticed about her. Over two floors showing them art and architecture, rugs and antiques and the lilies that she’d grown in one of the terraces, Myranda had already told them a series of personal things about her closest friends, including Alayne Stone. She was the illegitimate daughter of Petyr Baelish, and had joined him at the Eyrie a few years earlier. To Brienne’s visible shock, a marriage certificate binding Baelish and Lysa Arryn together had secured the Eyrie as his home until Arryn’s son—Sansa’s own cousin Robert—came of age. Brienne knew it was forged, otherwise she would have been able to access that information when she’d first put together his profile.

At least two more hours passed until they were done taking the pictures Myranda demanded, many of which included her posing with countless backgrounds. All the while Brienne was gritting her teeth and feeling the passing of every second, panicked that somehow the ground would split open and swallow Sansa. All she could think about was how the rest of the day would turn out.

When Brienne and Pod had first arrived at the estate, she had scanned the areas for possible places that would be adequate for a clandestine meeting. An abandoned barn outside the mansion caught her eye. She liked to be prepared, so she had made sure to write a note that she could keep handy in case Sansa appeared. `Meet us at the barn`. It also contained Brienne’s phone number and e-mail in the back.

When Myranda was finally satisfied with the session, she led them to a tearoom—it surprised Brienne that anyone could have a room in their house merely to drink tea—where Alayne was expecting them. She had tied her hair in a long braid, and was wearing a black dress that was beautiful, yet demure, appropriately suited for her period of mourning.

“I couldn’t just let you two leave without offering some refreshments,” Myranda laughed, and the high-pitched echo filled the room. “Who knows what sleazy inn _Millennium_ settled you in? You must be starved.”

“We really appreciate it,” Brienne said as politely as she could. “It’s nice of you to join us, Miss Alayne.”

“It’s my pleasure, Miss Tarth. Let us drop the formalities. Call me Alayne. May I call you Brienne?”

“Of course.”

“Would you mind terribly if I went to the kitchen to bring the appetizers? It seems like the maid is busy at the moment,” Alayne pointed out, standing from the chair, where she had been picking at her nails with a finger. Her restlessness raised an alert in Brienne. “Is there anything I can bring you?”

What little Brienne remembered of etiquette from her childhood told her that Sansa was being impolite, leaving the guests as soon as they arrived in the room, and it seemed to her that the young woman cared a lot for propriety. _Has she found us out?_

Brienne bit her lip, trying to gather enough courage to say the words that would either make them lose Sansa altogether, or get them the meeting they yearned for. “Do you happen to have some lemon cakes?”

Brienne was grateful that Myranda was distracted with her cell phone, laughing loudly at a text she had just received. Alayne’s eyes widened like saucers, and she stopped dead in her tracks, right next to where Brienne was sitting. With a trembling hand, Brienne slipped the note inside the pocket of Alayne’s skirt.

The girl’s expression became a mask of pleasantries once more, as if nothing had happened. It gave Brienne a bad feeling. “Unfortunately not, but we have some strawberry cakes. I’ll be right back.”

As soon as Alayne had returned with the refreshments, she sat in the couch in total silence, only responding when Myranda forced her into the conversation. Once or twice, when their hostess was not looking, Alayne threw worried glances in Brienne’s direction.

Half an hour was as long as Brienne was willing to tolerate Myranda Royce’s company. After that, she made an apology, telling her that their flight to King’s Landing was in a couple of hours and thanking her for the tea.

Pod and Brienne waited for an hour in the deserted barn, grateful for the cold breeze that helped refresh them from the heat and humidity of noon. They sat on the wooden floor, hardly talking from their anticipation, their hopes dying out like embers the longer they waited.

Just about when Brienne was ready to give up and pick up their things, a figure appeared in the distance, approaching them in a hurry.

Alayne stormed inside and shut the door behind her with a frown. Such an expression seemed too rough for her soft face. “You couldn’t have chosen a worse place to meet,” was the first thing she told them, rousing Brienne’s curiosity. “It took me forever to slip out of the house and come here. You . . .” Her gaze moved from Pod to Brienne. “Who are you really, and why are you looking for me?”

“We told you our real names,” Pod said before Brienne could intervene. “I’m Podrick Payne. We went to Red Keep Elementary together.”

Recognition flashed across her eyes. “Pod? I . . . I thought your face was familiar, somehow . . .” Her lips twisted. “Why are you here?”

Brienne remembered Arya, how she had taken the same attitude when they had met. Then things had gone completely wrong, and Brienne had to return empty-handed to Winterfell. She said a silent prayer to the Mother so it would not happen again, in spite of how infrequently she ever asked the gods for anything.

“Sansa,” Brienne started in a soft tone. The girl’s eyes brightened at the mention of her name, her real name. “Your great-uncle, Brynden Tully, hired me to search for you six months ago. He wants to take you back to the safety of Winterfell. I’m . . .” The words almost caught in her throat, looking into Sansa’s eyes. For so long Brienne had chased after her, wishing she were safe, that it felt like she had known Sansa forever. “I’m here to take you home.”

Sansa’s gaze was filled with questions. It was all that Brienne could do to open her laptop and sit beside her, patiently explaining everything she and Jaime had discovered since day one. How they had found out that Sansa had left with Baelish, what happened with Jeyne, the women in the north. From her lack of a reaction, Brienne figured she knew all of it, having access to his false father’s affairs. Unlike Arya, Sansa did not flinch at the mention of a Lannister working alongside her, and listened intently while Brienne explained that the Blackfish himself had hired Jaime. It would seem that she trusted her great-uncle far more than Arya—she was definitely more Tully than her younger sister.

“We’ll protect you. Baelish is dead now,” Brienne assured her.

“I hear what you’re saying,” Sansa said, brushing aside a strand of dark hair that had slipped from her braid. She stared at the equipment that was spread all over the floor. “But I still don’t see why you’re doing this.”

Brienne swallowed, dreading the idea that she would have to recall bitter memories to make Sansa understand. With a heavy breath, she replied, “I was alone in the world once, like yourself, after my father died. I had no one to look out for me for the longest time. I know what it’s like.” She leaned back against the wall of the shed and extended her legs. “I was powerless then, like you must have been all this time. I realize that while Baelish lived, you must have been terrified of what could happen to your family if you defied him. I know what he’s capable of.”

“He would have killed me, or them, or more likely both,” she whispered.

“I understand. But now he’s gone, and your uncle will be glad to welcome you home.” Brienne reached for Sansa’s hand, and the girl did not retreat. “He’ll give you everything that has belonged to you all along. He’ll give you Winterfell.”

Sansa’s eyes watered at the words, but she did not allow the tears to fall. She raised her head and frowned slightly. “I’m safe now. I haven’t been safe in a long time. Who’s to say you won’t turn me in to the Freys, or the Boltons?”

“Sansa,” Pod spoke, almost angry at the accusation. “Miss Brienne has gone to a lot of trouble to find you. She left King’s Landing, left her work and her home for you. And now—” He looked at Brienne, more determined than she’d ever seen him. “She’s found you here. All she wants is to help; she helped me when I was alone. She would never betray you.”

The brunette shifted on the ground, sitting as elegantly as she could on such a filthy floor. She remained silent for a long time, considering her options. Brienne was not about to push her; she couldn’t even imagine how heavy the decision must have felt on the girl’s shoulders. It was true that Sansa was safe now, away from Baelish’s claws and from the perpetrators of the Red Wedding, but she must also long to be with her family, with her brothers, back within the walls where she was raised.

Sansa looked up at Pod. When she spoke, her tone was gentle. “You were kind to me when no one else was, after my dad died. I can see that you really trust Brienne.” She ran a hand through her long hair, slowly disentangling the braid. Dark locks flowed between her fingers gracefully. “I think it’s time for me to be a redhead again.”

* * *

Females, in general, were ruining Jaime’s life.

The she-wolf was one of the most demanding creatures Jaime had dealt with in his life. It took at least three steaks every evening for her to be satisfied, and when he decided that there was no reason for him to keep feeding her, she had snuck into his bedroom and made a feast of his most expensive shoes. To make matters worse, she had not abandoned her irritating habit of standing outside Brienne’s bedroom door, whimpering from time to time and forcing him to think about the geek, who was just as exasperating as the direwolf.

Brienne had not bothered to contact him for hours after her meeting with Royce. When she’d finally remembered that Jaime existed, she had texted him a ridiculous one-liner with the words `I’ll get back to you as soon as I can`. What in seven hells that meant, he couldn’t know, and every time he tried to call her, he was greeted by the answering machine.

When Jaime left his bedroom after checking his e-mails for the umpteenth time, he found Lady’s huge frame resting on top of the now disheveled couch. _Damn it_.

“Hey!” he yelled, and she whimpered and lowered her head in response. Lately he’d discovered that she had a Labrador complex. “Get off the couch. Seven hells, in fact, just get out.” Jaime opened the front door for her, and after two or three repetitions of the order, she finally left and sat on the porch. He still had a hard time understanding exactly when the wolf had chosen him to be her new godsforsaken master.

Not two minutes had gone by when she started to howl, making Jaime roll his eyes. As the phone began ringing, he sighed and threw his last steak outside so she’d shut up and let him listen. “Yes?”

“Lannister. There’s been news from Miss Tarth.” The Blackfish’s neutral voice did not drop a single hint of what the matter was about. “I need you to come to the house in half an hour.”

“What’s it about?”

“We’ll speak of it in private. Don’t be late.” The call ended.

 _Why’s everyone being so cryptic?_ It crossed his mind that perhaps something had happened to Brienne, but he refused to give credit to such an idea. He stared around the house, mindlessly picking up the things that were in disarray and sweeping the floor to get rid of the wolf’s hair.

Jaime knew something was definitely wrong when he decided to check on Lady and found her pacing around the front of the house restlessly. The steak Jaime had left for her was untouched. In a matter of seconds, she wandered further and stood close to the woods, resuming her howling. Jaime had never seen her behave in such a way. For all her size, the wolf was peaceful and easygoing, and it didn’t take more than one or two commands for her to keep quiet. He stood by the doorway and watched her, trying to push an inexplicably bad feeling away. The skies were purple as the last of the sun hid in the horizon, and the first stars were appearing the sky when the wolf rushed towards the road and started barking franticly. She was cautious enough to stay off the roadway, at least.

Jaime checked his watch and realized that it was nearly time to head to the manor, so he fetched the keys and locked the door, then made his way up the hill. As he was arriving, an unfamiliar car with tinted windows passed by, and Lady came rushing after it, wild howls pouring out as she wagged her long tail. Once the car was gone, she looked back up at him, tongue happily lolling out, running back and forth as if telling him to hurry up.

Jaime’s eyes widened when he made the connection between Lady’s odd behavior and the mysterious vehicle, added to Brienne’s silence and Tully’s enigmatic phone call. “It can’t be,” he said out loud, and Lady’s ears shot up before she resumed her trot towards the entrance of the manor. _Geek, have you done it this time_?

The Blackfish was by the front door, wearing one of his best suits, with a look of satisfaction that Jaime had never seen before. The older man’s hair and beard had been neatly trimmed, his black shoes were shining, and for a moment it even seemed as if he were younger.

The car pulled in front of the house, and the back door opened right away. By then Lady was barking ceaselessly, almost jumping with joy. The geek was the first to come out of the vehicle with her messenger bag in hand. Most of her clothing had always been black or brown, always dark, dead colors, but now she was wearing a pair of jeans and a light blue sweater that made her eyes stand out like two beacons of light in the sea. She was as freckled as ever, her lips just as big, her frame still wide and hardly feminine, but it surprised him to realize that the things he’d found so ugly once were now warm and comforting.

Jaime had hardly ever seen her smile, truly smile, with a few exceptions during their most intimate moments. But as soon as her gaze fell on his, her lips curled in the smallest of smiles. It was honest, understanding. Beautiful.

He did not have much time to dwell on it before the second passenger climbed out.

Sansa Stark was the spitting image of her mother. She was tall and slender, with auburn hair that reached down to her waist. Her features were markedly Tully, blue eyes much like her great-uncle’s. A woman had taken the place of the girl that they’d been chasing after, graceful and elegant, as if her spirits had remained somehow untouched by her years away.

The first thing Sansa did was respond to Lady’s enthusiasm, her eyes watering at the sight of her wolf. Lady stood and barked excitedly until Sansa crouched and let the direwolf lick her face, engulfing her in a hug.

Once Lady had calmed down, the young girl and the Blackfish stared at each other for moments, as if neither of them was sure what to say. Then, quite shyly, she approached him and he embraced her like a protective bear. “You look just like your mother,” Tully told his niece in his gruff, though jovial voice. “Welcome home, Sansa.”

When they broke apart, she replied, “Thank you, uncle Brynden.” Sansa paused, as if looking for the right words. “For everything.”

A young man was the last to leave the car, and he helped the driver unload the suitcases from the trunk. His size and features matched Tyrion’s description of Brienne’s companion at the coffee shop back in King’s Landing.

“Welcome, both of you,” Brynden greeted him and Brienne. “Consider yourselves at home.”

“Thank you,” Brienne replied. “This is Podrick Payne. He accompanied me to the Vale to find Sansa, and was of much help.” She smiled at her companion. “Pod, this is Mr. Brynden Tully, Sansa’s great-uncle, and this is Jaime Lannister.”

“Nice to meet you,” Podrick said with a nod.

“Lannister, I believe you know my niece,” the Blackfish said, smirking at Jaime’s surprise.

All he could do was stand there, baffled at the scene. The damned geek had kept the whole thing on the down low, giving him no time to process the information. Too many questions filled his mind, while at the same time he tried to think of the repercussions of this turn of events. It was difficult to believe that just like that, after months working on the single task of chasing Sansa’s trail, their investigation had come to an end. It was an odd feeling. None of his projects at _Millennium_ had ever taken so long, and though he was hesitant to admit it, no other investigation had ever felt so personal.

“Welcome back to Winterfell, Sansa,” Jaime replied at last. “We’ve been looking for you for a long time, though your uncle has ten years on us.”

Sansa nodded. Her long hair was sprawled on her shoulders, over a thick gray fur-lined coat and a black scarf. “Brienne told me all about it. I would have never thought that _you_ . . .” Her tone softened as she went on, “That a Lannister would be the one to bring me to safety. But my uncle trusted you, and it seems that he was right to do so.”

“I’m glad to know you’re safely home.” Jaime glared at Brienne. “Though I would have much rather heard about this sooner.”

“I’m afraid we’ve been very busy,” Sansa said. “And it was my fault that you weren’t notified. I’ve been concerned with my safety, so I didn’t want Brienne to explain through the phone. We only arrived at Torrhen’s Square last night, and sent a messenger to notify my uncle.”

Once they had left the suitcases in the hall and Sansa had greeted Palla, who was the only member of the staff present, the redhead asked for their meeting to be moved to the godswood. Though Jaime had been given a brief tour of the mansion when he had first arrived, he had never visited the place. One of the commonly known facts about the estate was that the hot pool in the godswood kept the entire house warm, even in the harshest of winter.

It was a vast garden, and beautiful to look upon. The largest weirwood Jaime had seen was at its center, its carved face stained by tears of red sap. Every leaf of the tree looked full of life; both the bark and the leaves were intensely colored, and the ground was littered with fallen leaves. As soon as they entered, Lady prowled about and came to lie down beside the pool, close to the tree.

Two metal benches, elegantly carved so their backs were shaped like wolves, sat to either side of the weirwood. The air was colder than in the past few days, and the wind was picking up, making it quite chilly. Jaime sat on one of the benches, and Brienne and Podrick in another, whereas the Blackfish remained standing. Sansa knelt in front of the tree, as though just being close to it offered her protection. Jaime wondered if she felt simultaneously at home and in a foreign planet, after being away from Winterfell for so many years. That’s how he figured he would feel if he ever set foot in Casterly Rock again.

“I would suppose I owe you all some answers,” Sansa said, taking off her woolen gloves and placing her hand on the tree, “after all you did to get me here.”

“If you don’t feel comfortable . . .” the Blackfish intervened, but she raised a hand in dismissal.

“You deserve to know.” Taking a deep breath, her gaze became fixated on the hot water pool, lost in memory. “I was with my mom and Robb in the main hall at first, when people were settling in. For a while I sat with them, eating appetizers and dancing once or twice, but then Dacey Mormont spilled wine on my dress, so I hurried to the bathroom. The shots came when I was making my way back. I stood in the hallway, trying to think of a place to hide. I’d caught Arya sneaking into an air vent the previous morning; all she’d done since we arrived was scurrying around the passages, ruining her clothes. I could barely think, so I went into the vent and came to see all that happened inside.

“I was paralyzed for the longest time, even after the shooters had left. When I finally climbed out, Littlefinger found me near the stairway. I could barely understand what he was saying to me, all I could hear was that he’d keep me safe, so my feet dragged me to follow him.

“He took us up to my Aunt Lysa’s room. Littlefinger was fuming, and my aunt was so upset that it frightened me. They kept taking about marriage and my uncle Edmure and my mother, about Jon Arryn and my cousin Robert, but I could hardly listen. She kept saying that I looked like her, kept calling me Little Cat, and before I knew it she had her hands around my throat. Littlefinger barely got her under control by saying things to her, pushing her closer to the balcony. Once she’d finally calmed down . . . he flung her down like a doll.”

Sansa made a long pause. Lady stood from her position and approached her, lying beside her and resting her head on her lap. The redhead stroked the wolf’s head, and for a moment all that could be heard was the way the leaves flapped against each other as the wind picked up.

The story was close to his and Brienne’s speculation. Lysa Arryn’s jealousy had caught up to her, its flame burning strong from the way the shooting must have stirred her emotions. It must have made her fume to know that she could have been in the main hall with the other guests. _Did Littlefinger plan for Lysa to die instead of Catelyn?_ If so, he had been left with the wrong sister, the one he’d considered nothing but a chess piece, while Catelyn lay dead downstairs. The Red Wedding had definitely gone wrong for everyone—for Roose Bolton and Walder Frey, who had two of the Starks slip from their grasp, for Petyr Baelish, who had the plan blow up in his face, losing Catelyn forever. For Ramsay, who unknowingly received a false Arya Stark. For everyone who had witnessed the shooting, for everyone who died, even for Jeyne Poole, who had nothing to do with the feud between the Starks and the Freys. For Sansa.

She rested her back against the tree, her legs elegantly folded beneath her. “Littlefinger took us out of the Twins through an old, broken down entrance. We made for the Vale by land because I didn’t have a passport, though by the time we got there he had a new identity ready for me—Alayne Stone, his illegitimate daughter. He made me dye my hair and call him Father, gave me speeches about how to behave, about what my story was. At first I truly thought he’d help me, that he’d take me home to Winterfell, but day after day he assured me that we must wait, that the Boltons and Freys were after me, that if anyone found out about me, I’d end up like my mother and brother.”

In a soft voice, Brienne explained, “We couldn’t find records that Baelish was with someone at the Eyrie. Everything pointed to him arriving alone, same as back in King’s Landing afterwards. We couldn’t figure out where he’d left you.”

“After the wedding, he had me stay at a sleazy inn while he visited the Eyrie to settle my Aunt Lysa’s estate. Then he took me to King’s Landing, avoiding planes so as not to raise attention. He had me live in his brothel, because he considered it the safest place to hide. I made friends with the other girls, saw what they went through when a bad client came along, or when they decided that they wanted a better life.” She gazed at Brienne. “You told me of Jez and Willow, how they tried to get away . . .” Sansa shook her head, her voice faltering. “You saw what happened to them. No one ever gets away from Littlefinger.”

“You’re here,” Brienne whispered. “And he’s gone now.”

Sansa cleared her throat and continued, “When I was fifteen, he took me to live with him at the Eyrie, convinced that no one would have any suspicions regarding Sansa Stark anymore. That’s when I knew why he never gave me to his clients,” she said through gritted teeth. “I thought deep down he was trying to protect me, but he just wanted to keep me for himself.” A bitter laugh escaped her lips. “Jeyne warned me about him, back in King’s Landing, but I thought she was just making up stories. It must be why I couldn’t find her in the main hall. She probably saw him and tried to run off, but Littlefinger had men at all the exits. He always had men everywhere.”

The rage was visible on Brynden Tully’s face. Jaime thought that if Baelish were not dead, the older man might have ripped his throat out with his own hands. Too many things had piled up: Littlefinger’s part in the Red Wedding, how he’d killed Lysa, and now knowing that he’d abused Sansa for years.

Tully approached Sansa, though he remained standing, and rested his fisted hand against the weirwood. In a stern voice, he said, “After all those years, there was no sign that you might live. But then came that note. ‘The north remembers’. Were you the one who sent it?”

“I did.”

“Were you involved in the death of those Freys?” Jaime asked.

Sansa finally stood from the ground, brushing the leaves that clung to her coat. Her wolf remained still, looking up at her with big yellow eyes. “Six months ago, while Littlefinger was in Essos, Margaery went to the Vale for some real estate business. She dropped by the Eyrie on her grandmother’s behalf, trying to make the most of the trip, delivering some contracts for Littlefinger to sign. The visit was unscheduled, so he couldn’t drag me away. He would never allow me to see her. I hid most of the time to make sure the employees could corroborate that Margaery had no contact with me. But she stayed the night, so I snuck into her room when I was sure no one was looking.

“She was horrified by my story, and wanted to take me with her to Highgarden right away, but I refused. For years I saw what happened to those who tried to escape from Littlefinger. Margaery was enraged about the whole thing. She promised me something I deeply craved . . . Promised me revenge.”

“The Frey murders,” Brienne intervened.

“Margaery knew there was an upcoming party at Riverrun to celebrate a new business deal between the Freys and Boltons. I was afraid that she’d be exposed if she planned anything rash, but she’s learned from her grandmother. She filtered information to Roose Bolton about a recent drug deal where Walder Frey had cheated him out of a few million dragons. It was all she had to do for the murders to happen. It got Roose Bolton to send the Freys a message.”

“What about the note?” asked Jaime, leaning back against the bench. “Did she send it on your behalf?”

“Yes,” Sansa confirmed, her tone now more relaxed. “Seeing Margaery . . . I felt like Sansa again, I could reach for it, touch it, could leave Alayne behind for a moment. I asked her to make sure that my uncle knew it, that he knew that I was out there. That I remembered.”

“That note is what started this,” Jaime told her, recalling his first meeting with the Tullys back in King’s Landing. “It was a smart move.”

“It helped for a time,” Sansa continued. “To know that they were getting the same treatment as my family felt like justice. But it also made it harder to be Alayne, to tolerate Littlefinger’s approaches, to live knowing that I would never be free of him. It became unbearable.”

“So once again Margaery helped,” Jaime added. All the pieces were falling into place, those he had so thoroughly uncovered with Brienne. They led them straight to the ending, to the moment the curtain came down at last, when Alayne Stone’s performance was finished. “With a few drops of the strangler, she gave you freedom.”

Sansa’s surprise was palpable. Brienne had clearly not informed her that they knew the truth of Baelish’s death. “Yes . . . It was during his month-long trip to the Summer Islands that Margaery made sure I received the flask. Littlefinger loved his wine, so it was not hard to slip it to him when I finally found the chance.” A hint of reluctance appeared in her features. “She said it was almost untraceable, but you found out about it. Will anyone else?”

“No,” Brienne replied with a reassuring smile. “It took a combination of many factors to identify the strangler, and even more to know where it came from. Not to mention that the police know of Baelish’s businesses, they’ve just never been able to gather enough evidence, so they probably won’t look too hard for his killer.”

Though he’d been quiet for a long time, Podrick Payne shifted in his seat and spoke. “Even if they found out, everything would point to Alayne Stone.” He gazed at Brienne. “Miss Brienne modified the DNA and fingerprints the police used in the missing persons report so they’re now Alayne’s.”

“You get to be just Sansa now,” Brienne told her, and Sansa’s eyes brightened at the realization.

There was only silence then. Although Sansa’s new beginning brought them hope, it also left a bitter taste in Jaime’s mouth to know how much depravity had existed around the Red Wedding and its participants. When the investigation had begun, he and Brienne had believed that the murders had been the worst of it, and instead had met far bleaker answers, far more perverse incidents lurking beneath the surface—Ramsay Snow’s sick hunts, the tragic end all the women had met under his power, Littlefinger’s many and more conspiracies, the tragedy that followed Jeyne Poole until her death. They’d even managed to find Arya, to offer her safety, but she had discarded her identity to the point of refusing a legitimate chance to return to Winterfell. _We all bear scars now_ , Jaime couldn’t help but think, his eyes falling to Brienne’s shoulder. He bore his own on the side of his head, hidden beneath layers of golden hair where gray had slowly begun to sneak its way in. Sansa’s wounds were inside, where no one could ever see them. _We’re all damaged here_.

Somehow, despite the fallout, Jaime found relief in the knowledge that Sansa Stark would sleep in her own bed tonight.

* * *

Brynden Tully arranged for them to have dinner at the estate. The ambiance became much lighter then; Palla cooked an exceptionally good turkey, and the Blackfish opened the finest bottle of wine in the cellar. Sansa’s mood improved visibly with the conversation, as her uncle told her all sorts of stories about her brothers. Soon enough they would come back to Winterfell for their February break, and the family would be reunited once more.

There was no lack of topics for discussion, but Jaime found himself distracted more than once, mulling over what his future would be now that their search was at an end. He still had to finish his book about the Red Wedding, but other than that, he could think of nothing else. He was looking forward to seeing Tyrion, but he would continue to be estranged from both his father and Cersei. He somewhat wished to establish a relationship with his children, but often felt like they were better off without him, not being associated to his name after the Targaryen scandal. Jaime pictured his return to King’s Landing, to a far more welcoming weather and the apartment he called home, but it felt like such a distant thing that he might as well have been a different man.

Then his thoughts went to Brienne.

Twice they had shared furtive glances during the meal. Once she had averted her eyes as though his own were burning her, but the second time, they remained firmly in place. There was indecision in her, though Jaime spotted blooming anger as well. Whether she was angry with him or herself, he could not be sure.

The Blackfish was too sharp not to notice the silent exchange, but he did not mention it. As soon as dinner was over, they saw the snow beginning to fall through the big windows of the dining room. Sansa’s eyes lit up at the sight, while Podrick was completely in awe. Jaime was quite surprised himself—there had been no snowfalls in over two months.

“You’ve never seen the snow, have you, Pod?” Brienne asked lightheartedly. “I was the same, when I first came here.”

“I haven’t . . .” Podrick looked at Sansa. “Can we go outside?”

“Of course,” Sansa replied, more excited than Jaime had yet seen her. “I’ll teach you how to build a castle.”

With that, both of them left the room. The Blackfish looked from Jaime to Brienne knowingly, but he soon followed Sansa and Podrick, closing the door behind him. The dining room was dimly lit, and spacious enough to welcome at least twenty guests, so the space felt too big for just the two of them. Brienne walked over to the window, and her face was illuminated by the moonlight that filtered through. Her scarred cheek was turned to him, a flaw to the rest of the world, a sign of her unfailing strength to Jaime.

He came to stand beside her, though he kept his distance. Out the window they could watch Pod and Sansa running out to the ample front of the house with grins on their faces, their arms open to the snowfall. Lady half-barked and half-howled, circling them while wagging her tail. The image reminded Jaime of the snow globes that he’d seen as a child during the winter, joyful scenes frozen in time, full of illusion and magic. How such a sight was possible after so much sorrow was a wonder, and a true testament to how quickly someone’s life could turn around, like Jaime’s had since coming to Winterfell.

“They look so happy,” Brienne said softly, placing her hand on the window, as though she could only appreciate such a thing from afar. _You give yourself no credit_ , Jaime thought, the beginnings of anger bubbling in his blood. _You allow yourself no such luxury as happiness, and take us both down with you_.

“You didn’t tell me you had an assistant now,” Jaime said, watching her from the corner of his eye. “I thought you were glad to be by yourself again.”

“I’ve known Pod for a long time. I’ve always worked with him, just never so directly,” she explained, completely missing Jaime’s meaning. “He was the one who convinced Sansa to trust me. As it turns out, they went to elementary school together.”

“So he’s your trusty sidekick. Every cloaked hero needs one.”

She frowned slightly. “Don’t be unkind.”

“I’m not. I just never thought you a coward,” he sneered, coming to stand between her and the window so she would look at him instead. “You’ve always been so intent on saving the world, I never thought you’d be so opposed to saving yourself.”

Brienne looked at him with disbelief. “You always said I thought too much of myself, but you presume to tell me how to save myself?”

“Someone has to do it, _geek_ ,” Jaime replied, raising his voice. “Though to look at you, anyone would think that you thoroughly enjoy your misery.”

“You’re still the same arrogant prick you’ve always been, _Kingslayer_ ,” she snapped with a frown. “Why don’t you worry more about your own happiness and leave me to my own?”

“ _Leave me_. Interesting choice of words. It seems to me like you’re the one doing all the leaving.”

“You don’t _own_ me—”

“I don’t?” Jaime interrupted. His emotions got the better of him and he firmly grabbed her by the waist and pressed her against the wall beside them, keeping his face inches from hers. He could her hear breath catch in her throat. “Who else does this to you, Brienne? Who else can make you blush and shiver, who else can make you say the words you’ve said to me aloud?” They were so close that a strand of his hair got caught in hers, and he could feel her warm breath on his upper lip. “Will you play the innocent again? Do you think I’ve forgotten every time you’ve moaned my name, every time you’ve asked me to be inside you? To go faster, deeper, to come with you?”

“Stop it,” she whispered angrily, looking away. “You have no right, Jaime.”

“I have no right to do what?”

Her fists clenched, and her face reddened so much that he noticed it even in the faint light. Jaime cupped her ruined cheek gently, turning her face towards him and studying her eyes. “You want to kiss me, don’t you?” he asked in that tone he knew made her weak in the knees. _Come to me_.

Brienne grasped his hair so forcefully that it was almost painful, her furious eyes glazing with unshed tears. When her lips met Jaime’s, it was as though he was coming to the surface, gasping for air. Her taste, the feel of her as he encircled her waist with his arms, her scent—it was all he ever needed. His tongue opened her lips and slipped inside, meeting hers over and over until they were both breathing heavily.

When they broke, Jaime rested his forehead against her temple, keeping his hold firm on her. “Stay with me tonight.”

“I’m not a call girl,” Brienne said, and he thought he detected a hint of coyness in her voice. It was driving him insane. He felt like an addict going through withdrawal without her by his side, like an unfinished sentence, an earthbound eagle.

“Stay with me for good, then,” Jaime almost pleaded, kissing her softly, sweetly, kissing her until he had explored every inch of her mouth, his hands slipping into the back pockets of her jeans and pulling her towards him.

“I can’t,” she muttered between kisses.

“You _won’t_ ,” he growled, looking into her eyes, the rage merging with his desire. He took off her sweater, revealing a white shirt beneath, and buried his face in her neck, sucking on it, right over the scar of the wound that had nearly killed her a month earlier. Brienne shivered in his arms, let out a stifled sigh. Jaime could barely think. He placed one of her legs around his hip and pressed himself against her so she would feel how much he wanted her. She jolted so suddenly that she knocked one of the foot lamps beside them to the floor, and the sound of it shattering filled the room.

Jaime snuck his hand down the front of her pants and kissed her freckled chest, tasting the light layer of sweat that had begun to cover it. “No one else will do this to you,” he said softly, feeling her skin tremble at his touch, “no one else will make you feel this way.”

His finger slipped into her underwear, and traveled past her hair until it was sliding between her moist folds. “You want me, you’ve always wanted me, you _need_ me, Brienne.” He pushed the tip of his finger inside, hearing her moan in response, melting into his arms. “Look at just how much you’re aching for me.”

“Jaime, we can’t . . .” she muttered, groaning loudly as he pushed two fingers into her while biting her lower lip. “We . . . I just . . .”

“Shh,” he crooned, grinning against her cheek. Her skin was burning, and her arms were firmly wrapped around his neck, as if she were afraid of falling apart should he move. “Should I let you see for yourself?”

He pulled out of her, and she gave such a low whimper that that he barely heard it. Jaime ran his damp fingers over his lips, licking them as slowly as he could while staring right into her eyes. Her taste was intoxicating, maddening. He gave her a deep kiss, making sure she could taste herself in his tongue.

“Stay, Brienne,” he said afterwards, wanting nothing but to take her back to the house and fuck her, have her until they were both exhausted, touch every inch of her skin. The way his cock was straining against his pants was unbearable. “I know you. I know everything about you. You belong with me.”

Brienne bit her lip and pressed her forehead against his, her hand coming to rest over the scar of the gunshot wound on the side of his head. He snuck his hand inside her shirt and ran his thumb over one of her hardened nipples.

A cell phone rang loudly, the noise coming from the dining table. It startled the both of them, and though they did not move at first, only a moment later there were unintelligible voices approaching in the hallway. Brienne jumped at the sound, closing the button of her jeans and throwing on her sweater, while Jaime did his best to conceal his enthusiastic cock.

Without warning, the door opened, and Sansa’s voice came through. “. . . sure I’d taken it with me, but I left it here.”

The redhead stopped on her tracks as soon as she noticed them standing there. “Oh, gods, I’m so sorry,” she apologized, immediately averting her eyes and reaching for her cell phone. “I just left this behind, I didn’t know you were here, otherwise I would have knocked—”

“It’s okay,” Brienne replied, her breath still slightly accelerated. “I was just telling Jaime about how you asked me to stay here with you tonight.”

Sansa blinked repeatedly, as if still stunned by the scene. Jaime noticed that Brienne had put her sweater on backwards; her hair was messy and her lips were swollen and reddened by their kisses. Though Sansa had not caught them exactly red-handed, it was easy to jump to conclusions.

“It’s totally fine if you can’t,” Sansa said, words stumbling over each other. “I mean, I understand if you—”

“Don’t worry.” Brienne made her way to the door, sneaking one last look at him. Her blue eyes were so beautiful and sad that it stopped the blood from rushing to his cock. “Have a good night, Jaime,” she said at last. _Have a good life_.

The two of them departed, leaving him to the silence and half-darkness in the room. A few minutes later, Sansa appeared again while Jaime stared out the window towards the snow.

“Mr. Lannister?” she called.

“Jaime.”

“Jaime. I just wanted to say . . .” Her expression was regretful, as if watching him by himself made her realize the mistake she’d made by interrupting his moment with Brienne, but she made no note of it. Instead she told him, “As a thank you for your help, I wanted to offer something that I think might help you.”

“Yes . . .?”

“My uncle told me about the book. I know you must have questions, so . . . if you wish, I’ll tell you everything that happened at the Twins.”

Jaime thought of the unfinished document in his computer, which had so many unanswered questions that he had not been quite sure he could ever finish it. Sansa’s involvement would make it possible for the book to come to life, to expose the truth behind a ten-year-old mystery. He and Tyrion could publish it through _Millennium_ ; it would be their first book, opening the doors to future publications and significantly increasing the value of the brand. “I would very much appreciate that,” he replied with a nod of acknowledgment.

Just as she was leaving, Sansa stopped by the door with a playful expression on her face. “When my uncle writes your check, I’ll make sure he deducts the lamp.”

Jaime couldn’t help but smile. “Fair enough.”

He stayed in the room for a long time afterwards, looking out the window towards the fields surrounding Winterfell. The clouds spread apart and the full moon shone through, making the snow glimmer and the scene seem like a portrait. When Jaime had first arrived, the north had been cold and unwelcoming, the polar opposite of the warmth and liveliness of King’s Landing. Back then he had been completely detached from his surroundings, but now he felt as though the woods, the snow, even the weirwoods in the forest were somehow a part of him. For the first time, he could appreciate the beauty that lay beneath a frozen layer of radiant ice.

A wolf howled, and then another. Lady sat in the yard and echoed them, and soon the night was filled with the song of the wolves, one that Jaime had not heard in months.

The Stark heiress was home, and the north remembered.


	21. Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: [Kidneythieves - Before I'm Dead](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7rclL_8Jf7w) | [Lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/kidneythieves/befreimdead.html) | Beta'ed by [YellowDelaney](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowDelaney/pseuds/YellowDelaney)

Chapter 21: Fear

_[Her] greatest fear, which was so huge and so black that it was of phobic proportions, was that people would laugh at her feelings._

* * *

The day of the book release—in spite of her better judgment—Brienne stood outside her regular bookstore, staring at Jaime’s poster. Those green eyes, his jawline, his long golden hair, his gray-speckled beard were a sight that hit her like a wave, knocking the wind out of her.

For three months she had not seen his face, not even in photographs. She had avoided the news channels and the papers, and one of the first things she had done when she returned to King’s Landing was getting rid of the application that monitored Jaime’s computer. She had deleted every picture, every e-mail and message, every interaction they’d ever had from her phone before acquiring a new number.

 _The Red Book_ was the title Jaime chose, and its cover was a crimson stain of blood with the image of the Twins in the background. Brienne couldn’t help but find amusement in that. So long ago she would have expected Jaime’s ego to get the best of him, and for the cover to be nothing but a big picture of his handsome face, but throughout the investigation she had discovered that he was not so one-dimensional as that.

The _Millennium_ logo was stamped at the bottom of the cover. Having this be their first book was a clever decision, both for recognition and financially. For ten years, Westeros had wondered about the story behind the massacre, so it was a given that buyers would rush to purchase it, even if Jaime’s reputation had suffered greatly at the hands of Aerys Targaryen. Brienne saw it for herself when she entered the store and was greeted by a line no shorter than twenty people. For a book that was not fiction, and revolved around politics at that, it was exceptional that there was so much interest. It foretold that _Millennium_ was bound for greatness, especially if the reviews were positive.

Once Brienne had patiently waited in line and paid her eighteen dragons for the book, she headed to a diner across the street. She ordered a cappuccino and settled in one of the tables, opening the last page and gazing at a small portrait of Jaime, which was stamped above a short biography and a list of his achievements as a journalist. Though his eyes were as fiery as ever, it seemed to her that his appearance was more professional.

Before she had even read the first page, the trickles of a conversation at the next table distracted her. Brienne had noticed a couple sitting there when she’d walked in, a married one, from the looks of them. She had paid no attention to their chatter until the name ‘Kingslayer’ came up.

“Looks like the famous detective is going after mysteries again, huh?” the woman said. “This time he even managed to get his hands on the Red Wedding. I didn’t see that coming.”

From the corner of her eye, Brienne saw the bearded man shrug. “It’s gonna be a failure, you’ll see. Once the buzz dies down, no one will even remember the book existed. How reliable can it be, anyway?”

“Because of what happened with Targaryen?” the woman asked.

“Of course,” he replied, disbelief dripping from his tone. “He’s probably made most of it up. Lannister’s trial proved that he’s good with fiction, didn’t it?”

“But he worked directly with Brynden Tully on this . . .”

The man snorted. “A senile old man who’s been holed-up in Winterfell for over a decade?”

“I suppose you’re right,” his companion added with disappointment. “It must be a marketing strategy. _Millennium’s_ revenue must have suffered from his scandal.”

“You just wait. In a few months someone else will probably sue him for that book.” The man turned the page of his newspaper with a rustle. “The Kingslayer would have been much better off if he’d stayed at LanCorp, protected by his daddy’s fortune.”

The woman laughed. “I just feel sorry for him. He’s so handsome. It figures that he wouldn’t be very smart.”

Brienne had heard enough, so she left a five-dragon bill on the table and walked out of the diner. The line at the bookstore was now much longer, leaving the store and almost reaching the corner of the street. She had always thought that true redemption would come for Jaime once the book was out. He had proved that he was far cleverer than everyone believed, and had accomplished the impossible by exposing the participants of the massacre. But the only thing people still saw was the stain left behind by Aerys Targaryen.

With a sigh, she headed back home, clutching her copy of the book tightly. Brienne’s curse had been her looks, her introversion, her difficulty to relate to others. So long ago she’d believed it must be easy to go through life looking like Jaime, more a god than anything else. Instead he was dragged down by his name and his past, by the simple fact that he was Tywin Lannister’s son, no matter how many times he had proven his talent, away from his father’s empire.

 _Kingslayer_. So many people despised Jaime for never referencing Tywin’s involvement with the Kingswood Brotherhood, but if there was one thing Brienne had learned about him, it was how fiercely protective he was of those he loved. How could anyone expect him to sink his own father? He had done what needed to be done—pulled apart the organization, ended their reign over the city of King’s Landing, yet he was judged for the only thing he had failed to do.

When Brienne finally arrived at her new apartment building, the doorman greeted her politely. Even after so many weeks, she still could not wrap her head around having someone there to guarantee the safety of her home. Her penthouse was spacious, and had hardwood floors and ample windows that filled the room with natural light. Only when she moved in did she realize how few belongings she had. The two-story apartment seemed too big for her, too luxurious for her simple way of life, but many reasons had driven her to buy it.

Before she left Winterfell, her life had taken an unexpected turn. Sansa thought it fair for Brienne to receive as large a check as Jaime had as payment for her involvement in the investigation. She had not even known what she could possibly do with eight million dragons. Since living on her own, Brienne’s account had never seen more than a thousand. Her father had been very well compensated for his work in the army, and their family had owned most of the lands in Tarth for generations, but she hadn’t had access to those assets since being appointed a guardian.

Surprisingly enough, Hyle had been the one to help her. For all his cheap charm and carefree personality, he was good at his job. Hunt had worked as a financial advisor more than once, in between his different roles in Randyll Tarly’s company. So Brienne had agreed to coffee—far away from her apartment—and consulted him on her options. He had diligently listed them, suggesting that she invest in a stable market like real estate, and Brienne had hired him to look into it in more detail. A week later she was handed the keys of a luxurious penthouse in the Red Keep district, the most expensive in the capital. She’d told herself that it was about getting out of her dump in Flea Bottom, but the determining factor had been the unease she felt when she thought of Jaime coming back to the city.

Brienne knew that once he was done interviewing Sansa and the Blackfish, and wrapping up the final testimonials for the book, he would come back to his old life in King’s Landing. She had the willpower not to drop by his apartment, but if he showed up at her doorstep, she would come undone just like she had in the Stark estate. Brienne had tried so hard to resist the temptation of letting him drip into her veins, letting him possess her like he had, but at the end she had melted before him. Jaime had the power of getting through all of her defenses, stripping her down to the bare bone and showing her things about herself that she had never witnessed before.

She still had a lease on her Flea Bottom apartment to receive her mail and keep up the appearance that she resided there. The truth was that, to protect her personal information, Brienne had created a shell company called Sapphire Inc. to buy the apartment. That way Jaime could not track her—not him or anyone else. She would be out of his life for good, and he would move on.

When Brienne approached her kitchen counter, she noticed that Pod had dropped off her mail. He was the only one she trusted to deliver it from her old place and to have an extra key for the penthouse. There were some outstanding bills, some pamphlets of resorts in the Free Cities, but a medium-sized box caught her eye. It was gift-wrapped in black paper with red ripples that glimmered under the light.

Curiosity got the best of her, and she opened it to find a copy of Jaime’s book inside. This one was different to the one she had just bought—it was hardcover, whereas only the paperback had been officially released to the bookstores. Tucked inside the pages was a fancy invitation to a black-tie event for the book release, with her name on it in elegant cursive letters. On the back of the card there was a note in Jaime’s handwriting.

`I miss you.`

Brienne put the book down and grabbed her own copy instead, walking over to the terrace that overlooked Blackwater Bay. She jumped straight to the first chapter, where Jaime explained what had been known about the Red Wedding prior to the investigation. Page after page, she devoured the text, engrossed by the way he had woven the pieces together since the very beginning. He exposed the truth of the motivations, from Robb Stark’s impromptu wedding to the loss of assets it had implied for Walder Frey’s company. Though both Jaime and Brienne had known Bolton and Frey were responsible from the start; it was due to having access to corporate information that few people could get their hands on. Such a public revelation in Jaime’s book would have been risky, had it not been for the fact that Ramsay Snow’s death—and the drugs found at the scene—had caused enough of a scandal for the eyes of Westeros to be upon Bolton. Jaime was careful to state it all as speculation this time, as well.

Reading through the book felt to Brienne like a revival of the events of the previous year. It was hard to believe that those details that had taken them days, weeks, some of them even months to figure out had become a simple sentence, and the readers would never know what they had gone through to rebuild the story. There was no mention of the missing girls or Ramsay Snow, no explanation of where Sansa had been hiding, much less of Arya in Braavos. No one would ever know that they had nearly been killed, that they had seen torture and rape and cruelty beyond all belief. It would remain forever a secret that during those cold months in Winterfell Brienne had been chafed raw by a mystery, been drawn into Jaime’s orbit, been turned into a woman she never knew she could become.

Then, without a warning, she had been pulled apart by Jaime’s recklessness, turned to dust by the ambivalence between love and fear.

It was on the last chapter that Brienne caught a glimpse of Sansa. The redhead had told her that she planned to help Jaime with the details; she would be his eyes in the main hall during the shooting. It was a feat of bravery on Sansa’s part to relive it all on behalf of the book, but Brienne thought it must also be a relief to finally let go of the secret that had plagued her for over a decade.

The significance of Sansa’s cooperation transcended the details of the murders. Her presence in the north was not yet public; she had wanted some private time to settle back at home and be with her brothers, away from the eyes of the press. Upon the release of the book, the world would know that Sansa was alive and well, that she had returned from obscurity to take her rightful place in Winterfell, to claim her position in Winter Motors and bring the company back to life.

Taking a deep breath, Brienne began to read Sansa’s words.

 

_It was an hour to midnight when they opened the main hall and the guests poured in. There was a delay in the delivery of the linens on the part of the wedding planners, or so they told us, though most likely it was the armed men who were late. There was music and dancing at first, a series of strange appetizers while the main course was on its way, but something felt remarkably odd about the party, the air was heavy with unspoken tension._

A few lines later, Sansa explained what she had witnessed from the air vent.

 

_By the time I looked in, so many were already dead or injured. All I could think of was spotting my family, but perhaps it would have been better if I hadn’t. Jeyne Westerling had a gun pointed to her belly, while Robb was on his knees, begging for her life to be spared. My mother was on the ground, crawling towards a table, leaving a trail of blood behind her, though I could not see where it came from. By then the back door had long been forced open, and all of the witnesses and the injured had long left._

_Robb asked the shooters over and over to let Jeyne go, but they told him this is what was coming to him for presuming to rule over the north after my father’s death. They killed Jeyne first, made him watch. While Robb cursed them and despaired, my mother grabbed a knife and threatened Walder Frey’s wife, saying she’d slash her throat if they didn’t let Robb go. She’d immediately known that Frey was behind it, she knew him best, knew of his wretchedness._

_The men cared little for her threats, and shot Robb in the back of the head. My mother went mad with grief, screaming something I couldn’t make out. One of the shooters told another to kill her, but the biggest of them said no, that she was not part of the deal. During their time of hesitation, she kept her promise, and Frey’s wife joined the rest._

_My mother wouldn’t leave. She was just kneeling there with her face in her hands, screaming. Someone yelled that she needed to be put out of her misery. She was shot, and everything else was a blur. They argued amongst them until one of them was killed. Once they made sure no one remained alive, they cleaned up the shooter’s blood, shot Frey’s wife to cover the stab wound, and left._

The fragment was the first piece of new information Brienne found in the book. She had never asked Sansa the details of the scene, knowing that she would hardly want to speak of it. Just reading about it made Brienne’s chest tighten, so she put down the book and stared at the view.

The sun was beginning to set, and the horizon was stained with orange and purple. A light breeze washed over the terrace, flipping the pages of the book on the table. She gazed down to find that it had been left open on one of the first pages, the one that corresponded to the dedication. It was blank but for a sentence.

 

_Not a word of this would have been written if not for Brienne Tarth_.

* * *

Nearly two weeks had passed since the Red Book had been released, giving Jaime enough time to slip back into his old routine at _Millennium_. When he arrived back in King’s Landing, he and Tyrion had worked tirelessly on the book, editing and revising, checking sources and dates, making sure every single detail was perfect. The fact that his brother had supported him throughout the process went to show just how much Tyrion believed in him—enough to give him a second chance, even though it might mean the end of the magazine. Their readership had dropped since the scandal with Aerys, even in spite of Jaime leaving the city.

Returning to his former life was nothing like Jaime had expected.

He was sitting in his office with the door closed, watching the latest inane YouTube video to distract his mind. Though _Millennium_ had a monthly run, Jaime had never been one to procrastinate while writing a feature. If there was one thing he was passionate about, it was putting together a story, so he had always been prompt in finishing his articles. Except that now he had trouble concentrating, and found himself searching for excuses not to face the blank Word document.

Tyrion burst into his office, interrupting his train of thought. The blinds had been closed, but the dwarf pulled them open as soon as he stormed in, making Jaime wince from the way the light stung his eyes. Having Tyrion watch him so closely made it hard for him to conceal the dark rings under his eyes.

“What the fuck, Jaime?” Tyrion protested, cracking open a window. “It’s Friday. You said you’d have your article ready last week, but you’ve been doing nothing for days. I’ve tried to cut you some slack, but that’s obviously doing no good.”

Jaime groaned. “I never knew you could sound so much like Father. I’ll have it ready. I will.” He clicked play on the next video on the Most Popular list. “Just stop being all up in my grill about it.”

Tyrion’s eyes were shrouded in disbelief when he shut Jaime’s laptop and glared at him. “Up in your gr— _what_? This is your magazine too, and as of late you seem to have no interest in being involved.” He sighed and sat opposite him. “Just tell me what’s the matter.”

“This just all seems pointless, Tyrion,” Jaime said, his eyes growing heavy from his sleepless night. “I know it matters, what we do here, I know we give our readers insight into what goes down with the big fish in Westeros. And I know that more than one dirty business has gone up in flames thanks to us. But I searched for the shadow of a girl for months, went through hundreds of police records, had to dig deep beneath the surface to figure out the mysteries behind the Red Wedding. I saw mutilated women—gods, I was almost mutilated myself, almost killed.” He lowered his voice until it was a whisper. “I’ve killed someone with my own hands.”

“I know this,” Tyrion replied.

“I felt like I was doing _something_ ,” Jaime continued, resting his head on his hand. His hair was longer now; he hadn’t cared much about getting a haircut or trimming his beard. “Sansa’s back home after a decade, thanks to Brienne and me. Ramsay Snow won’t kill any more women; Roose Bolton’s empire is starting to crack. What we did—it made a difference. It was something I could touch.”

Tyrion said nothing, leaning back on the chair. A moment passed without them exchanging words, with only the sounds of the street filling the room. For the past three months Jaime’s sole focus had been the book; it had kept his mind fairly occupied, given him a sense of purpose directly associated with his work back in Winterfell. It had kept him from thinking of Brienne every hour of every day.

“I just can’t do this right now,” Jaime said at last, handing Tyrion the details of his current assignment. Give it to Lyle Crakehall, I’m sure he can handle it, and there’s still enough time. I think that, for now, I should just focus on editing and management. It will take some work off your back so you can dedicate your time to hire the new personnel.” The publishing of the book had shown the world _Millennium’s_ potential as a top-notch publisher, so they had found themselves with a couple of new investors providing enough capital to hire three more journalists for the magazine, more freelancers and someone to handle their editorial.

“The offer sounds good, and it’s better than having you sit here moping all day long,” his brother replied as he stood. “But what about the Red Book? You busted your ass writing it, and now you won’t even agree to an interview.” Tyrion gave him a glance that, for once in his life, expressed a certain pity. _Am I this pathetic?_ “I know you wanted her to come to the release party. I get it, I do—I was there when you and Cersei ended things, so I’ve seen this before, and . . .”

“Don’t speak of her,” Jaime growled, standing and gazing out the window as he turned his back on the dwarf. “Just don’t.”

A moment later Jaime found himself alone, and shut the blinds with a loud clang.

_“You know, the Blackfish really wants me to write that book about the Red Wedding,” Jaime told her as she straddled him, intertwining her fingers with his. “It’s gonna be a bestseller. What are we going to do with all that money?”_

_Brienne stirred, positioning herself comfortably on top of him. Though Jaime was naked, she wore her underwear and a large hoodie. They had rented a lakeside cabin near Torrhen’s Square to spend the weekend. The area around the property was deserted, so Jaime had led her out to the small dock in front of the house, right by the sparkling blue water. Dawn had only been a few minutes earlier; Jaime had delighted in the feeling of their bodies moving together, watching Brienne’s blue eyes in the light of the sunrise. She had only been exposed for the briefest of times, while lost in the sensations of the moment, but as soon as her chest had stopped heaving and the flush on her cheeks had faded, she had thrown half her clothes back on._

_“I don’t know. What did you do with your money when you were rich?” she asked, leaning forward and brushing a strand of hair from his forehead._

_“I had fancy cars. Expensive suits.” It might as well have been a different life. Back then he was a whole lot more Lannister and a lot less Jaime. “Nothing meaningful.”_

_“You could invest all that money in_ Millennium _. It’s what you love.”_

It’s not the only thing I love _. He bit his tongue. “What about you?” Jaime asked, sneaking his hands into her sweater, scratching the skin on her waist softly. “What would you buy? A big house in the capital?”_

_“I already have a house,” she muttered, biting her lip._

_“You’ve never told me of it.”_

_“It’s just . . .” Her gaze was lost as her fingertips traced circles on his chest. “I don’t have access to it, that’s all.”_

_“Why?”_

_“My assets were frozen by the State when I was appointed a guardian.”_

_Jaime frowned, unable to think of a less suitable person in the world to have a guardian. Brienne was perfectly capable of handling her own affairs, of making her own decisions. The idea that there was a designated person to dictate what she could or could not do with her life was baffling. “I don’t understand. You should be well off that since you were eighteen.”_

_“Those were the conditions for me not to go to juvie. They thought I was violent.”_

_Jaime’s heart sank. He sat and held her closer to him, placing a soft kiss on her lips while cupping her face. “Have they met you? You’re as peaceful as they come.” A smile crept on Brienne’s features. He ran his thumb over the scar on her cheek, also thinking about the long one on her side. “Unless someone fucks with you, of course . . .”_

_“Like you?” she replied with a smile. “You should probably be a little afraid.”_

_“I should?” Jaime engulfed her in a much deeper, longer kiss this time, tasting himself all over her tongue. “Will you chop my head off?”_

_“No, but . . .” A hint of malice glinted in her eyes. “I might . . .”_

_“What?”_

_Before he knew what was happening, he was in the lake with freezing water all around him, and a chill was traveling over his body. He struggled to swim back to the surface of the lake and gasped for air, while Brienne’s laughter filled the air like music. Making the most out of her distraction, Jaime pulled her in with him, and heard her bellow more than one insult when she came up to tread the water beside him._

_“How about I buy you this whole lake when I get that endless amount of money from my book?” he suggested, pulling her close. Brienne wrapped her arms around his neck, puffing from the cold. “Hells, I’ll buy you the whole north if you want.”_

_“Not a word of this book is written, and you’re already trying to buy me presents?” she asked in a mocking tone. “Why don’t I just agree to be your date for the release, and promise to let you cry on my shoulder if no one buys it?”_

_The way her soaked flaxen hair stuck to her face was nothing short of endearing. Her eyes were bright and full of life in a way that he had never seen before. In that moment Jaime thought that if they never found Sansa or Arya, if they never broke the code in the diary, if the whole investigation was a waste, he would no longer care. “You’ve got yourself a deal, geek,” he told her with a grin. “Care to seal it?”_

_And so they had—so many times that, when they arrived in Winterfell, they slept throughout the entire day._

Jaime would give anything to wipe the memory from his brain now, for all of it to be far from his mind, to never have known such a thing as what Brienne had given him. Her trust and her loyalty, the blind faith that they would find Sansa, how she would only drop her barriers in his presence and no one else’s. Most of all, Brienne had loved him in a way that was like jumping off a cliff, limitlessly, unknowing of what awaited at the bottom. She had given him her innocence, the one that still remained in her, even with life’s continuous disappointments.

Now her phone was disconnected, her apartment in Flea Bottom vacant. She had not replied to a single one of his e-mails, and even in Evenstar Security there was no word of her. It was as though she’d dropped off the face of the earth, and he was only left with the pieces of a story that now felt like a mere figment of his imagination.

* * *

It took little for Jaime to agree to the interview after Tyrion lightened his load at _Millennium_. The night after their conversation, his brother called to inform him that he would be appearing on a morning show the next day to discuss the impact of the Red Book. Jaime begrudgingly agreed, and Tyrion insisted that Jaime meet with Pia that night to go over the possible questions and review some of the aspects that he should highlight to get the attention of investors in their new publishing company.

They met at the café near the _Millennium_ building, as usual. Pia was a pretty brunette, slim, with a certain charm about her. It had not taken her very long to make an advance on Jaime when she’d first arrived at the magazine, but back then he was still with Cersei and had no interest in anyone but his stepsister, so he had turned her down. Pia had somewhat taken pity on him after he had fallen from grace, offering comfort in a far less sexual way. For a year she had been involved with Peck, the magazine’s photographer. Jaime himself was the one to push him to ask her out, sick of the longing looks they gave each other every time Peck dropped by from his studio.

Jaime was glad to see a ring on Pia’s finger upon his return to the office. When he’d asked about it, she had smiled brightly and told him of the engagement, speaking wonders of her fiancé. Something akin to envy had bubbled deep inside him then, but he had done his best to ignore it.

“Jaime, look at me,” Pia said, snapping her fingers in front of his face. “I’m talking to you.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, taking a sip of his plain black coffee. “I just don’t see the point in this. The interviewer will ask questions, I’ll answer them, it’s as simple as that. I don’t know why Tyrion put you up to this.”

She sighed. “He’s just worried about you. And I think maybe he’s right to be. You’re so different since you came back from the north. Grim, even.”

“Grim?”

“Yes . . . I don’t know if it’s the snow still freezing your bones or what, but you just look miserable all the time.”

Jaime shook his head with a sardonic smile as he stared out of the glass wall towards the passersby on the street. “The north is just a cold hard bitch, is all.”

“The north, or _someone_?” Pia inquired, studying him with curiosity.

“How much has my brother told you?”

Pia shook her head. “Nothing. May I forget you’re my boss for a moment and be honest?” He shrugged in response, so she went on, “You look like total shit. The kind of shit that can only come from getting your heart stomped on.” She drank a sip of her cappuccino. “If I had a million dragons, I’d bet them all on this whole thing being about a woman.”

At first, Jaime said nothing, but then he couldn’t contain the laughter that poured out of him. Knowing his reputation as one of the most eligible bachelors in Westeros, anyone would have thought the culprit would be a woman of Cersei’s beauty, full of grace and charm. Nobody, not even Pia, might have thought this was all about a geek who was taller than him, with a flat chest and freckled skin, a big mouth and a scar on her cheek. Then again, no one could ever know what had gone on between them in Winterfell, how she had saved his life, how she was the only person who stood on his corner throughout the ordeal with Aerys, even before they had met.

“Ah, see, that’s the reaction of a man in love,” Pia said with a smile.

“It doesn’t matter,” he assured her, finishing the rest of his bitter coffee. “It’s over.”

“Is it?”

“I haven’t seen her in over three months. She’s made sure of it,” Jaime admitted with a certain embarrassment. “It wasn’t what she wanted.”

“That sounds a little hard to believe,” Pia laughed, leaning her elbows on the table. “Especially if this was as big a deal as it looks. I’m guessing this is the woman from the dedication in your book . . . I’ll bet she’s thinking of you, too.”

“If she is, she’s doing a damn good job at hiding it. She even moved out of her apartment and changed her phone number.”

Pia lowered her gaze towards the cup, while Jaime focused on the light rain that had begun to fall outside. The sounds of the cars honking on the streets, the ringing of the ambulances, the trucks and music and all other big city noises felt foreign to his ears, tiresome. Everything was so much easier back in the little house, with the silence and the wolves and the leaves blowing in the wind.

“Maybe all she needs is time,” Pia said after a while, pulling out her cell phone as it beeped to indicate a message. “It happens. I just think, perhaps . . . If you really want her to be with you, show her that you don’t want to let her go.”

“I thought if you loved something, the rule was to let it go.”

She snorted, standing from her chair and grabbing her purse. “That’s bullshit. Sometimes we need a push.” Jaime did not miss her mocking tone; it was a reference to the way Jaime had pushed Peck towards Pia.

Giving up on her task of helping him prepare for an interview that he hardly cared about, she departed from the café, leaving him to his thoughts.

_Bullshit, is it?_

* * *

Brienne tried to keep busy throughout the fortnight after the release of the Red Book, making an effort not to think of Jaime and the media’s reaction to the entire event. The first thing she had done was contact Sansa to ask how she was doing with the press, now that her reappearance was no longer a secret, but even Sansa’s many tragedies had not stripped her of her politeness and determination to push through. Sansa’s presence in the north validated much of what Jaime had stated in his book, so Brienne did her best to ignore the itch of searching for reviews and public opinion, assuming that it was going well.

Since her return to King’s Landing, she had little desire to go back to her old job at Evenstar Security. Though Mr. Goodwin had always been kind and receptive, she found little motivation to work in the same manner as before. Finding Sansa had been such a challenge that its rewards went far beyond the monetary compensation, and being able to stop Ramsay Snow from abusing women had felt like she had true power to make the world better. No matter how much Jaime mocked her, calling her a cloaked hero, she was eager to do that kind of work again, but found herself without opportunities. Working for the Night’s Watch was not was she wanted; the organization was corrupt on many levels, many of its members hired by external entities to protect their personal interests. The City Watch, the local police in King’s Landing, was the same, if not worse.

It had not been long since Brienne had finished her latest project, the revenge she had prepared for Rorge in the past few weeks.

At first she had thought that sending the pictures on his computer to the Night’s Watch was more than enough punishment, but she had seen too many criminals fall through the cracks of the flawed justice system in Westeros. After spending half a year staring corruption on the face, Brienne knew that the only way to combat such levels of ruthlessness was outside the law. _You’re no killer_ , Jaime had whispered in Ramsay’s cabin, seeing her exactly for what she was. But Brienne would not be indulgent, either. Not with a monster like Rorge.

It was for that very reason that her target during the past weeks had been Vargo Hoat’s underground network of contacts. Though most of those under his employ were little more than mediocre low-level thugs, Hoat himself was Roose Bolton’s most important handler in King’s Landing. Brienne could think of no better word when she discovered that information than _convenient_. Hoat handled Bolton’s shipments; Hoat’s men were in charge of distributing them. Rorge himself served mostly as a whistle-blower, establishing alliances with other government employees, but more than once Vargo Hoat had him oversee the sales with disreputable places like the Stinking Goose.

By hacking into Bolton and Hoat’s e-mail, it was easy to find out when the next shipment was due, and which of them would be assigned to Rorge for delivery. Brienne had wiped one of the receipts for the merchandise in their private network, and thus made two hundred pounds of heroin vanish from the records. Her hidden cameras in Rorge’s apartment had allowed her to break in while he was gone, leaving the receipt in one of his drawers.

All she had to do then was hack Rorge’s e-mail and establish a series of communications with one of the low volume dealers in Flea Bottom, bartering for the missing batch of heroin. Brienne happened to know that said dealer, a man known as Steelshanks, had been recently bought off by Bolton himself to report how heroin was moving in the capital.

It was two nights ago when, through her Night’s Watch access, Brienne found the photographs of Rorge’s corpse after being shot in his apartment, where she also had made sure to store all images and videos of the women he’d raped.

Brienne’s birthday was so soon that there would not be enough time for the State to assign her a new guardian, most especially after it was revealed that she had been under the care of a rapist and drug dealer. Either way, their hands would be quite full with the negligence lawsuits that would follow the discovery of the photographs.

Though she had yet to receive the official documents of release for her assets, for the first time since she was little more than a girl in Tarth, Brienne was free. Or so she had thought, before her willpower had turned to dust and she had clicked on the video of Jaime’s interview that morning on Meryn Trant’s show.

The problem was that, from beginning to end, the interview had felt more like a way to publicly attack Jaime’s credibility than anything else. At first Jaime had made an effort to calmly deviate from the subject during the impertinent questions, but right at the end, he had broken down, and for good reason.

“What makes you think we can believe anything in this book of yours, knowing that you’re a journalist accused of lacking any ethics? And guilty of libel, no less,” Trant had said in a sardonic tone. “Even being the son of Tywin Lannister, the courts ruled against you. And as if that were not enough, you proved them right by dropping out of _Millennium_ as soon as you left the courthouse. How are we to trust the Kingslayer as a reliable source of information?”

“Would it be easier to do it if I had been born to a different family?” Jaime had asked with fire in his eyes. “ _Kingslayer_ , you reporters love to use that to demean me, but can you tell me exactly what the cops had done about the Kingswood Brotherhood before my article? Was anybody doing anything to pull the plug on them?” Only then had he lost control, his tone growing much angrier. “Every word I said about Aerys Targaryen was based on reliable facts, for all the good it did me. While you and I speak in this air-conditioned room, hundreds of women are kidnapped in the Free Cities and treated no better than cattle, all thanks to morons like yourself who support Targaryen’s little stunt to pull the rug from under my feet. You wouldn’t know a journalist from an underwear model, so I think I’d better stop wasting my time.” Without another word, Jaime had stood abruptly, tearing his microphone from his long-sleeved shirt and tossing it on the floor.

The interview had only been that morning, and the video already had over four million views. It enraged Brienne to know that his book had merely been an excuse to get him talking about the Aerys situation, to get him to break down in front of an audience for nothing but sport. She couldn’t even imagine what Jaime’s state was at the moment. He had truly believed the book would redeem him from his faults—though he’d never admit it—and all along he did not even have anything to atone for. The only thing he had ever done was tear down the Brotherhood and expose Aerys Targaryen’s participation in the traffic of women from the Free Cities to Westeros, and all he had to show for it was this wretched video.

Brienne had reached her breaking point, and she was ready to let her emotions into it. With a firm, heavy hand, she typed a single line into her computer—one that she had formerly hoped she never had to use.

`> STAG__ exploit TARGARYEN-AERYS`


	22. Enemies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: [The Beatles - Two of Us](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gSQeTSrI6bg) | [Lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/beatles/twoofus.html) | Beta'ed by [YellowDelaney](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowDelaney/pseuds/YellowDelaney)

Chapter 22: Enemies

_“I’ve had many enemies over the years. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s never engage in a fight you’re sure to lose. On the other hand, never let anyone who has insulted you get away with it. Bide your time and strike back when you’re in a position of strength—even if you no longer need to strike back.”_

* * *

The Stinking Goose was busy that night, crowded and loud in a way that Brienne had never seen it before. Depending on the evening, the establishment could be qualified as different things—sometimes it was essentially a brothel, while other days it became the host of underground heavy metal bands and their followers. The only thing it never lacked was its fair share of drug traffickers, ex-cons and more than one pimp looking for women to hire.

Brienne had soon learned that the only requirement to leaving the Stinking Goose unscathed was to mind your own business and never bite when baited into petty arguments. She perfectly recalled the first time she had been here. Though not at all her kind of scene, she had been feeling pathetic enough to need a drink when Renly’s wedding to Margaery Tyrell had been featured on every news channel, calling it a match made in heaven. Brienne had drowned her bitter tears in a pint of beer and, like a thing of fate, she had met Daenerys Targaryen. Thus her path had led her towards hacking, towards the discovery and manipulation of people’s private information in an attempt to balance out the odds for those in need.

So many years had passed since then that she hardly felt like the same person anymore, but the sense of déjà vu was strong when she was admitted to the private cellar downstairs and was met by the Targaryen heiress.

Daenerys was younger than Brienne by a couple of years, and her composure was nothing short of regal. She was short, with long silver hair and violet eyes that brightened as soon as Brienne walked in. Ever the graceful socialite, Daenerys was wearing a knee-high lilac dress and high heels, and sat on a long white couch that looked more appropriately suited for a designer’s office than one of the dodgiest bars in all of King’s Landing. Brienne had never been in that room; it was only used by high-paying customers who needed a private place for their unsavory deals.

After exchanging greetings, Daenerys gestured for Brienne to sit, and poured her a generous glass of Arbor gold. “I was surprised to hear from you,” she started with a smile. “It’s been a long time since we last saw each other, but I’m glad to see you’re well.”

Brienne nodded, feeling slightly underdressed in Daenerys’ presence. She wore her usual jeans and a gray woolen sweater that Sansa had given her as a present. “It’s nice to see you, too. I was away from King’s Landing for months.”

“I know this,” Daenerys said in amusement. “Though I hardly believed it when I first heard. Brienne Tarth in Winterfell, chasing after Sansa Stark with the Kingslayer. That was a well-kept secret of Tully’s.” She drank a sip of wine. “I must say you did a great job, though I would expect no less of you. I’ve seen your work firsthand.”

“Thank you.” Although the meeting had been set up the previous day, Brienne did not know yet exactly how to begin explaining her predicament. She was so used to working on her own that it made her uneasy to ask for help, most especially knowing that it came from a Targaryen. But she had to try, at least.

Before Brienne could speak, Daenerys put down her cup of wine and leaned forward. “Brienne, I know we’ve barely spent any time in each other’s company, and how long it’s been since we last met in this very place.” She paused. “In spite of that, it’s not hard to tell when you’re conflicted about something. And I know that if you asked me here, it must be because there is something you need. Don’t be afraid to ask. I’ve never forgotten my debt to you.”

“Yes, I . . .” she said softly, biting her lip. Taking a deep breath, Brienne looked straight into Daenerys’ eyes. “You said before that if I ever needed a favor . . .”

“I’ll be glad to help you. Tell me what you need.”

“Well, to be honest, it’s not me,” Brienne said, fumbling for the right words. “I’m trying to help out a friend.”

Daenerys raised an eyebrow, her interest clearly piqued. She sat back on her chair and continued to drink from her glass. The light from a candle that sat on the table between them drew shadows across her face. They swayed on her features, making her seem harsh and soft in turn with the slightest shift in the air. “It’s been years, and you’ve never asked me for a thing. Not even money. You wouldn’t ask this for yourself, but for someone else’s benefit?” Her violet eyes studied Brienne closely, like a dragon stirring in the shadow. “This must be someone special.”

Brienne’s gaze was firm on Daenerys’. She could not back down now, she had said too much, and Daenerys was too perceptive not to know where this was going. For centuries it had been said that the Targaryens danced too close to madness and greatness at the same time. As soon as Brienne spoke the words, she would be exposing not only herself, but Jaime as well.

“It’s about your father. About last year’s lawsuit.” Feeling her heart speed up slightly, she finished, “It’s about Jaime Lannister.”

There was no surprise in Daenerys as she replied, “The Kingslayer himself.”

Neither of them said anything afterwards. Brienne did her best to avoid feeling irritated by the use of the moniker, and focused on how to handle the delicate matter of opening Daenerys’ eyes where her father was concerned. If there was anything Brienne knew about her, it was that she had a good heart, and enough empathy to worry about anyone who stood in a position of disadvantage.

“You know I would not lie to you,” Brienne said at last. “Jaime was set up by your father. He was lured into a trap against his credibility, because he had gotten too close to the trail.”

Daenerys raised her head, crossing one leg over the other. “You would put me in this position?” she asked, her tone neutral. “I am the heiress to Targaryen Industries, yet you would have me turn against my father. You helped me out of a situation that would have caused me great damage—those photographs could have harmed both the Targaryen name and me. The name that my father so jealously guards.”

There was no point in sugarcoating it. “Yes.”

To her surprise, Daenerys let out a soft laugh. “The Kingslayer must have made quite an impression on you.” She draped an arm over the back of the couch, leaning back casually and sloshing the wine around her glass. “You’ll find no judgment in me. It’s not for us to determine whom our hearts will long for. I’ve been there, the gods know it, and so do you.”

Daenerys gestured towards a plump, dark-skinned guard that had been standing at the entrance since the beginning of the conversation. “Belwas.” When he looked towards her, she told him something in her melodious High Valyrian, and he nodded and left through a door that led back to the main room of the Stinking Goose. Then she continued, “Do you believe in fate, Brienne?”

Brienne couldn’t help but smile. “The past months have forced me to.” In order to be polite, she drank from her glass of wine, finding the taste to her liking. Only then did she realize that she had never tasted Arbor gold before, much less the kind that a Targaryen might offer.

Before the conversation could continue, the guard walked back inside, followed by a petite girl that looked to be in her late teens. What drew the eye about her the most were her big, almost golden eyes. “Good evening,” the young woman greeted politely.

“This is Missandei,” Daenerys introduced. “Missandei, this is Brienne Tarth. She’s a good friend, and loyal. We can trust her. Will you show her?”

 _Show me what?_ Brienne wondered. The girl’s features, and her slight accent, made her seem as though she was from across the Narrow Sea, but Brienne could not quite pinpoint the exact location. There was nothing that stood out about her other than her eyes—not until she took off her shirt.

Missandei wore a sports bra underneath, but when she turned her back to Brienne, Daenerys’ message became clear enough. The girl’s back was completely covered in scars that could only be caused only by whipping, so many of them that she was striped like a zorse. Brienne swallowed hard, but said nothing, looking at Daenerys expectantly.

“Thank you,” the silver-haired girl told Missandei once she had put her shirt back on, and gestured for her to sit. “Do you know where I met her? I went to one of my father’s warehouses around a month ago to supervise a delivery. Except instead of heading to the Red Keep district factory, I went to the one on the Street of Sisters by mistake.” Daenerys’ features were full of indignity as she continued, “Imagine my surprise when, instead of finding the stockroom full of wine caskets, I found cells full of women, locked up in cages like animals.”

Though Missandei had seemed shy at first, she added, “We came from Astapor, Miss Tarth. Some of the women with me were tourists, kidnapped in cities of the East. Others, like me, have been slaves since we were born.”

Ideas raced in Brienne’s mind; she could hardly believe what her eyes saw. The meeting was so far from what she had expected that she could barely think of what to say. She had come to the Stinking Goose thinking that she would have to do the impossible to convince Daenerys of turning in her father on behalf of a man whose credibility had been crushed, and instead she had found one of the few people in the world who knew Jaime’s story to be true.

For once, Brienne’s hacking abilities had not been enough. She had gained access to several of Aerys Targaryen’s computers, as well as the private network of Targaryen Industries, but found that the documents were nowhere near enough. The e-mails and memos demonstrated that Jaime’s sources were truly planted, that Varys and Rossart and Hallyne were nothing but aliases of unofficial employees of the company. It was sufficient for the courts to overturn Jaime’s verdict the previous year, but at the end of the day, the trafficking would go unpunished for lack of proof. Brienne was not about to content herself with that.

And so it was that she had resorted to her last option, her feather in the cap—the favor Daenerys Targaryen had offered her long ago, in exchange for getting rid of the photographs of her and Daario Naharis. Although it was utterly daring to ask Daenerys to act against her own father, Brienne had to make her best effort to push through. Jaime deserved better than to be demeaned for a crime he had not committed, one that had virtually destroyed his career, and might very well seal his fate as a journalist. If the Red Book could not redeem him, Brienne would take it upon herself to do it. She would return Jaime his honor.

She had never imagined the current turn of events, however.

Daenerys remained silent, letting Brienne absorb the information while finishing the last of her wine and pouring a glass for Missandei. At last, Brienne said, “You said you found the women a fortnight ago. Missandei, do you know how long you’ve been in King’s Landing? An estimate?”

“I always marked the days, Miss Tarth. Before Miss Targaryen arrived, we had been in the warehouse for two months, plus at sea for seven weeks on our way here from Astapor.”

 _Around four and a half months ago_. Her mind focused on Petyr Baelish’s death certificate. _The timeline matches_. Not only had he provided prostitutes for Ramsay Snow and drugs for Roose Bolton, he had also been responsible for delivering women from the Free Cities and Essos to Aerys Targaryen. Were there no honest businessmen in Westeros? Brienne did not even want to wonder what Baelish must have been doing for Tywin Lannister or the Tyrells. Just thinking about it made her shudder.

Baelish’s death had hampered Targaryen’s side business, however, which meant that Aerys had found a new provider soon after Baelish’s untimely death. It explained the sloppy mistake of having the women in a company warehouse, especially if Daenerys had access with her corporate keycard. It was the kind of mistake that, for an experienced man like Targaryen, implied a sudden change in the methodology that hindered the process.

“I know what happened,” Brienne assured them, taking a deep breath. “Petyr Baelish was the one in charge of bringing the women to your father. When Baelish died, your father had to get someone else to do the job. Whoever they are, they must have little to no knowledge of Westeros, or they would have never taken such a risk by keeping the women in a Targaryen Industries warehouse.”

Daenerys averted her gaze. “My father is not in his right mind anymore. I must admit, I didn’t want to see it, but finding Missandei forced me to face it.” She stood from the couch. “My brothers are dead, as is my mother. I have no family left, but I cannot protect my father anymore. Not after this.” She nodded towards Missandei. The young girl pulled a stack of documents from a briefcase that had been sitting beside the coffee table since Brienne’s arrival and handed them to her. Then Daenerys went on, “You want the name of this slaver? His personal details, his address? There you have it. I’m the one showing you the path, but you must walk it. I can only give you this. You won’t obtain information from my father, but I’m sure you’ll have no trouble getting the documents from Kraznys mo Nakloz instead.”

“What about the company?” Brienne asked, baffled by Daenerys’ determination. She scanned the papers quickly. It was more than enough information for her to gain access to all of the slaver’s electronic devices in a matter of days.

Daenerys frowned, her eyes meeting Missandei’s. “I won’t rule over an empire built on the backs of defenseless women. I’d rather watch it burn, and make something new of the ashes.”

 _Madness or greatness_ , Brienne thought, grasping the documents tightly. From Aerys Targaryen’s blood had come the only person in a position of power, aside from Sansa, in whom Brienne had glimpsed a true leader. Should their generation begin looking more like these two women and less like Bolton and Frey, Westeros may yet have hope.

Brienne had been burned her entire life. It was time for her to set the fire . . . and watch it spread.

* * *

When _Millennium_ had started, it was only as big as Jaime and Tyrion’s two-bedroom apartment in the city, and they had been its only employees. Every editorial had felt like climbing a hill, every article was a challenge, but little by little they had grown and put together a team that had given the magazine its respectable run of ten thousand copies by the time the Targaryen scandal had gone down.

Jaime never thought he would see the day when they would be ending the lease of the tenants on the upper floor of the _Millennium_ building. Now they needed the office space for the new employees, journalists and freelancers and copywriters, as well as a new graphics designer to help with Pia’s workload. Not to mention that, through the cash that had started flowing in from the Red Book, Jaime had convinced Tyrion to hire Podrick Payne as a researcher, though his real job would be something far less lawful. The young man had accepted, but chose to work from home, much like his mentor had.

Somehow, even the dreadful interview on Meryn Trant’s show had not managed to dampen the willingness of the new investors. The same had gone for the book sales—if anything, they had skyrocketed since the video had become viral. A fortnight had passed since then, so Jaime had gone from rage, to irritation, to simple resignation where the video was concerned. Like Tyrion said, they were getting money, and money would expose more politicians and help make a difference in the politics of King’s Landing in the long run.

Tyrion had decided to become the head of their publishing company, while Jaime took his brother’s position and became the editor of _Millennium_. His job consisted of supervising the other journalists and distributing assignments based on the current interests of both the media and the readers, or on any tips their sources might bring. The task was tedious, but at least it was something he could get done, and it forced him to get out of the house and face the day.

He was discussing some changes in Lyle Crakehall’s article for the next month’s issue when Tyrion’s voice came from conference room with a tone of urgency. “Jaime. _Jaime_! Get in here, you need to see this!”

Both Jaime and Lyle rushed out of the room to join Tyrion. The large TV was on a news channel, and his brother was turning up the volume. Drawn by the uproar, in came Pia and Peck, as well as Lewys Piper and Garrett Paege. The caption of the report was AERYS TARGARYEN FACES FEDERAL CHARGES.

The reporter was standing outside the main building of Targaryen Industries, where a group of people had gathered to witness Aerys Targaryen being rushed to a police vehicle. Once Jaime was closer to the screen, he realized it was Taena Merryweather, a Myrish tabloid reporter from the same network as Meryn Trant, wife to one of the minor business associates of his father, who owned a research company much like Evenstar. The crowd was very loud, so the woman had to raise her voice to be heard over the noise. “We’re broadcasting live from the Red Keep district, where Targaryen Industries CEO Aerys Targaryen has just been arrested. Targaryen is facing grave charges for human trafficking after a series of documents were provided anonymously to Supreme Court judge Robert Baratheon, who immediately issued a warrant for his arrest.”

Merryweather tried to approach Targaryen’s lawyer, who was swarmed by another group of interviewers, but all the man repeated was, “No comment.”

Giving up on her attempt to obtain a statement, the woman continued, “Eleven months ago, Jaime Lannister, journalist and co-owner of _Millennium_ , published a feature in which he accused Targaryen of participating in a network of sexual trafficking. Targaryen sued for libel, obtaining a favorable verdict that cost Lannister over two million dragons in damages. Should the courts sentence Targaryen with the new evidence, the verdict of said trial will surely be overturned.”

The crowd’s voices were drowned then, and the camera focused on the entrance of the building. Daenerys Targaryen was on her way out, looking every bit the heiress of a billionaire empire in her dark gray dress, with silver locks of hair draped over her shoulders. A reporter from another channel reached her first, so all the others moved their microphones closer.

“Miss Targaryen, what will this turn of events bring for Targaryen Industries? How will the company handle the situation?” he asked. “How do you feel knowing that your father’s legacy has financed crimes against humanity for years?”

“I must ask you to remember that nothing is certain at this point,” Daenerys replied in a firm tone. “I want to make clear that this is merely speculation, but should the charges against my father be proven in court, Targaryen Industries will be liquidated effective immediately. The capital corresponding to my family would be destined to create a non-profit organization dedicated to giving the victims their lives back.” She raised her head, regarding all the reporters who were present with steely violet eyes. “Human trafficking is nothing short of heinous. If the evidence stands, as my father’s sole heiress, I will not have this company exist as a mockery to those who have been affected by such a crime.”

With that, Daenerys resumed her walk down the steps, followed closely by Jorah Mormont, publicly known as her lawyer and main advisor. Before she could get in her limo, a reporter screamed, “What about the Kingslayer?”

She turned abruptly towards the cameras. “ _Again_ ,” she emphasized, “should this prove to be true, I’d imagine all of you—and myself—would owe Jaime Lannister one hell of an apology.”

The way her eyes glinted at that, and the slightest hint of amusement on her lips told Jaime that Daenerys was well aware that the charges her father faced were true. She could have called him _Kingslayer_ —she had done it publicly many times before—but instead she had used his full name.

Daenerys climbed in her car and the limo took off. Merryweather finished, “This has been Taena Merryweather, reporting from the Red Keep district.”

The expressions on the group of employees were nothing short of shocked, while a huge grin made its way to Tyrion’s face through his astonishment. “Jaime, holy _shit_ ,” the dwarf said with a laugh. “Do you realize what this means? You’ve just publicly slayed Aerys Targaryen.”

“Just nearly a year too late,” Jaime said, his eyes still fixed on the screen. All around him the rest of the team gave their congratulations; Peck brought in two bottles of champagne from the kitchen, while Pia squealed excitedly. Everyone started talking at the same time. Jaime heard the words _Millennium_ and ‘sales’, ‘prestige’ and ‘credibility’, but he thought he might be having an out-of-body experience. He rewound the TiVo and replayed the last part, watching Daenerys’ eyes, her expression, her calmness. _She even has plans for the company already_. There was even an air of satisfaction in her posture, and not a single bit of denial, even though the accusations would blemish the entire Targaryen name.

It was then that Jaime smiled at last. He had thought it odd that YouTube and other video websites had been throwing Bad Gateway errors the entire weekend after his interview, and a week later it had felt like karma when Meryn Trant had been all over the news for the discovery that he’d been involved with the network owner’s underage daughter. _Third time’s a charm, Brienne_.

Jaime’s mind raced as he headed to his office to pick up his jacket and his cell phone. Tyrion looked at him with curiosity at first, but then he groaned and fell into step behind him. “Jaime, don’t—”

He was barely listening anymore. All he could think of was that wine-filled night back in Winterfell, a million years ago. _“I started because Daenerys Targaryen had a problem, and I could help.”_ Lannisters were not the only ones who paid their debts, it seemed.

Jaime rushed to the door, ran down the stairs two at a time. As soon as he was out of the building, Tyrion poked his head out of a window and yelled, “Don’t even think about calling him!”

* * *

Jaime hadn’t been to Brienne’s apartment in Flea Bottom since those days when he had just arrived back in the city, when he had been naïve enough to think that he would somehow find the geek awaiting him with arms wide open. For two weeks he had visited over and over, until the super got tired of seeing him and explained that Brienne no longer lived there, that the apartment was vacant, though she continued to cover the rent.

Since then he knew heading down there was futile, but the blood was pumping so furiously through his veins that he couldn’t help but make one last attempt. He knocked furiously on the door, over and over, calling out Brienne’s name until his throat was sore. The noise did not go unnoticed by the super, who soon appeared behind Jaime with an annoyed expression. “You again,” he said with distaste. “I thought I’d seen the last of you.”

Jaime glared at the man, sick of the self-restraint, sick of living his day to day in a useless game of pretending to move on. “Where is she?” he asked through gritted teeth.

This time, the super did not immediately brush him off. Instead he pulled a key out of his pocket and opened the door. The place was completely empty, from the living room to the kitchen cabinets and the bedroom. Jaime looked at the super with an inquiring glance, and the man explained, “She came last night, took some things that she’d left behind, and gave me back the key.”

“Where was she headed?”

“Fuck if I know,” the man replied with a shrug. “I just know she gave up the apartment for good.”

Jaime’s head was spinning as he left the building, getting in his SUV and shutting the door harshly. _This might mean nothing. She hasn’t lived in this place for months, anyway_. Did Brienne know that he would come looking for her as soon as the arrest reached the news? What could have changed for her to give up the apartment in a definite way, if she had kept it unoccupied for over three months?

 _Fuck Tyrion_ , he thought, pulling out his cell phone and locating Podrick on his contact list. The hacker had agreed to work for _Millennium_ under the sole condition that no one asked him any questions about Brienne—‘no one’ being Jaime, of course. Tyrion had given him a long speech about the many benefits of having Pod at the magazine, which seemed absurd to him, considering that he had recommended the hacker. But his brother had made him _promise_ that no matter what, he would not harass Pod about Brienne. _Fuck promises_.

“Hello?” Pod picked up immediately. “Hi, sir.”

“Hey, Pod,” Jaime replied, trying to keep the unease out of his tone. “I’m gonna ask you something, and I need you to be straight with me.”

“Um . . .”

“ _Pod_ ,” he continued, “I assume you’ve watched the news.”

“Yes, I have. And I think it’s great that—”

“It _is_ great. A miracle, to hear some people tell it. But I think you and I both know that we share a certain acquaintance who has a talent in making miracles happen,” Jaime suggested.

Pod was silent for a moment. Then Jaime heard him take a deep breath. “Sir, Mr. Tyrion said that no questions would be asked, I explained that I couldn’t betray her confidence . . .”

“I get that,” Jaime said in a charming voice. “But you see, there are ways for you to help me out without betraying her confidence. Do you understand?”

“Um . . .”

“How about you just answer yes or no? Would that work?”

“Well . . . okay, I guess . . .”

“Good.” Jaime tapped his fingers against the wheel impatiently. “Did she buy another apartment when she came back from Winterfell?”

“Yes.”

“Did she keep her old one for appearances?”

Pod hesitated, but then, with a heavy sigh, he said yes.

 _If she gave up her apartment now . . ._ What had changed? The reporter had said that the anonymous documents had been dropped off last night, so she had enough time to turn in the keys after making sure they were delivered to Robert’s office. _You hand me my honor on a platter, and then decide to flee?_

If she no longer needed the apartment in Flea Bottom for cover, that could only mean one thing. “Pod, has she left the city?”

“Yes,” he replied with disappointment.

Jaime’s stomach dropped at the affirmation, feeling much like he had when he had first met the Blackfish, thinking that Sansa could be anywhere, a needle in a haystack. Now it was the same with Brienne—she had just picked up and left without a goodbye, without an explanation.

“Did she tell you where?” Every bit of composure left his tone. Jaime’s desperation grew with the thought that he could have done this weeks ago. He should have ignored Tyrion and demanded answers from Pod; he should have dug as deeply as it took to find her hideout, to have her face him, to see her one last time. “ _Where is she_?”

“Sir . . .” Pod paused. “All she said was . . . she said she was going home.”


	23. Liquor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: [Radiohead - Everything In Its Right Place](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=onRk0sjSgFU) | [Lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/radiohead/everythinginitsrightplace.html) | Beta'ed by [YellowDelaney](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowDelaney/pseuds/YellowDelaney)

Chapter 23: Liquor

_Sometimes they were together so often that it felt as though they really were a couple; sometimes weeks and months would go by before they saw each other. But even as alcoholics are drawn to the state liquor store after a stint on the wagon, they always came back to each other._

* * *

Tarth was the kind of island poets wrote about. Its sapphire waters glimmered in the light of the afternoon sun, making the sea look like a star-sprinkled sky, open and beautiful, shrouded in mystery.

Brienne was sitting on top of her motorcycle, much like she had every day that week, staring at the house that had been her home until her teenage years. Though the lands around it were wide and fertile, the house itself looked no different than any other. It had two stories and an attic, and was located on a cliff overlooking the Narrow Sea. If Brienne closed her eyes, she could still recall the days when it was painted in azure, contrasting beautifully with the rose roof tiles. There had been flowers planted all over the front yard, and an orange tree with fruit of incomparable taste.

Upon opening her eyes, reality would hit her like a slap. Since the closure, the place had been entirely abandoned, and without anyone to maintain it, its current state left much to be desired. The paint was chipped, and the wood on the side of the house had mold, unable to withstand the humid, salty air. The roof tiles needed to be changed urgently, all the plants had died, and the fence had fallen apart piece by piece.

Brienne could not begin to imagine how she would have reacted to such a thing were it not for her current financial situation. With what was left of her payment for the Red Wedding investigation, she had more than enough for the necessary repairs, however much it took for her home to look the way it had a decade ago. As for the time she would have to invest, she had put her apartment in the Red Keep district up for rent, and the monthly income was far higher than she had ever earned at Evenstar Security. For the first time in her life, she could take as much time off work as she needed without worrying about the money.

The inside of the house was another matter. There would surely be cobwebs everywhere, dust, fungi, even rats living there. The place might smell like wet wood, it might look like it had come out of a horror movie. But for Brienne to know that, she would have had to walk inside first.

For the past few days her routine had always been the same. She would wake at the inn where she was staying, have some breakfast and climb on her bike, making her way to the estate. Then she would sit on the motorcycle, gazing at the house for hours, unable to come up with the courage to open the door and look inside.

Every time her fingers grasped the doorknob of the main entrance, panic seeped into her veins. It was as though the handle burned her skin, and the memories flooded her brain. Brienne could almost perceive the stink of cigarettes that came off the intruder, hear the sounds of struggle, of violence. The bloodstain that awaited her at the entrance would not leave her mind, that spot where the lifeblood of three different entities had come to co-exist and mark the space—her blood, her attacker’s, her father’s. The hardwood floor must have eagerly absorbed it all, sealing that moment in the history of the house. The stain would be there to greet her, to taunt her.

With a sigh, Brienne realized today would not be the day.

Just as she stood to climb on the motorcycle, she heard the noise of a car pulling up on the road, which was odd. Since she had barely arrived on the island days ago, she was not expecting visitors, and all the people who had known her from childhood were either dead or estranged after the murder.

Brienne thought her eyes might be deceiving her when she spotted the plates of the vehicle. Her breath caught in her throat, and she tried to remind herself how to breathe as the SUV stopped near her and Jaime climbed down. Her grasp on the helmet loosened, and it dropped to the gravel with a choked sound.

He stood there for a time, leaning against the side of the SUV, and they stared at each other without a word for what must have been minutes. Jaime’s eyes were as green as ever, his hair had been trimmed to the same length as when she had met him, and he had shaved his beard. Its absence made him look unfamiliar; she had always thought it so attractive in its scruffiness, but now he looked younger, and it was easier to appreciate the sharp angles of his face. His smile, that self-satisfied grin, the nonchalance in his posture, they all baffled Brienne. Had she not been with him before, had she not touched him, felt him, kissed him to prove that he was real, she would have thought him a vision.

When Jaime finally approached her, Brienne made sure not to make a single move, expectant of his reaction. His hands were casually inside the pockets of his jeans, and he was wearing a white t-shirt, well suited for the weather of the island.

“Stupid stubborn geek,” he said for a greeting. “Has no one ever taught you that when it’s your birthday, you receive presents? You’re not supposed to give them.”

She wondered how he had found out about her birthday a week ago, but it was not a difficult piece of information to obtain. The night Brienne turned twenty-five, she had decided to bring as much freedom to Jaime as she was getting herself by making sure Robert Baratheon received the documents of the Targaryen case. After that, Brienne had turned in the keys of her old apartment, changed her address in all the required institutions, and made her way back to Tarth.

“I’ve come to give you one,” Jaime continued, ignoring her silence. Though Brienne was convinced he could be presumptuous enough to consider himself a gift, he pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her.

It was a photograph. The sight of it made her stomach twist with sentiment. It had been taken in the godswood back in Winterfell. Under the big, stunning weirwood was Brandon Stark, along with his brother Rickon, who was now in his teenage years. Beside them stood Sansa, lovely and graceful as ever, and in the center, to Brienne’s disbelief, sat Arya Stark. Her eyes shot up towards Jaime’s, as if begging for answers, her heart beating so fast it might leap out of her chest.

“You did it. It just took a while to sink in,” Jaime said with a smile.

Brienne desperately wanted to cry at the news, cry of happiness, of pride, of a sense of accomplishment that as of late seemed to be blooming like a field of flowers during the spring. But she held back her tears, every one of them, and waited for the knot in her throat to soften before speaking. “Did you come just to bring me this?”

He shrugged. “You’re not returning my e-mails, how else was I supposed to make sure you got it?”

Jaime walked back to the SUV, and for a moment Brienne feared that he might climb inside and leave just as suddenly as he had appeared, but all he did was pop the trunk open. She walked towards him with curiosity. There were so many suitcases and boxes in the trunk that Jaime had had to adjust the seat forwards to make room for the baggage. In total silence, he began to unload the trunk one case at a time.

“What . . . what are you doing?” Brienne asked in disbelief.

“What does it look like I’m doing, geek?” Brushing her off, he went on with his task.

Realizing her mouth was open, Brienne closed it and came to stand between Jaime and the trunk, puzzled by his intentions. _Has he gone mad?_ Gently, he grabbed her by the waist and moved her aside, continuing until every piece of luggage was out of the trunk. Then he stretched, looking towards the house. “It’s very quaint,” he remarked in amusement. “It needs a few patch-ups, but nothing a hammer and some nails can’t solve.”

“No,” Brienne said at once, shaking her head. “You must have suffered a blow to the head. You should jump back in the car and go get checked out by a doctor.”

Jaime simply laughed. There was an air of conviction about him that she had seen few times before, when one of his theories was proven unequivocally correct in the investigation. She recognized the expression that appeared on his face whenever a clear answer came to him after spending hours, days, weeks wondering. Searching.

“You see, I realized you’d left this behind . . .” He opened one of the boxes and pulled out the familiar red blanket that she had taken from him during their first days back in Winterfell. “But then I remembered it belongs to me, and I know how _very_ important it is to you . . . So I thought the best way to go about this was a reasonable time share.”

“Time . . . _time share_?”

He bit his lip through a grin in that way that never failed to raise her temperature. If he was teasing her, she was convinced it would be justified for her to kill him right then, but soon his arms came to be wrapped around her hips, his chest firm against hers, his lips seeking her own for a soft, tentative kiss. The sensation was odd after so many months away for him, like waking from a dream that had felt too real, too close. When Jaime pulled away, she placed her hand at the back of his neck and prompted him to kiss her again, deeper and more familiar now. It was as if a single page of their book had been turned, as if their film had been merely paused all this time. As if life had somehow refused to go on.

When they broke apart, the questions rained in Brienne’s mind in the face of the sudden circumstances. Jaime was so impulsive, so volatile, that all she could wonder was if he had truly thought this through. “What about _Millennium_? What about your children?”

He snuck his fingers inside her shirt, caressing her waist so softly that it gave her goosebumps. “Freelancers can work anywhere, isn’t that your motto? I’m an editor now, so I can very well do my job from here.” Jaime kissed her damaged cheek, then her chin. “As for my children, Myrcella is going to college this year. She met with me to tell me that she knew I was her father, to ask me not to tell Tommen yet. To give him time.”

“Oh,” she replied softly, glad that his daughter had reached out at last.

In a playful tone, he continued, “Do you know what else we talked about?”

Brienne shook her head.

“You.” He extended the blanket over the trunk of the SUV. The space was very ample from the way the seat was positioned. Jaime grabbed her by the waist and led her inside, little by little, until they were lying down and he was firmly settled on top of her. “You see, she likes you. I wonder why that is. She was also under the impression that you’re my girlfriend. Isn’t that crazy?” Brienne blushed and averted her gaze. Jaime planted kisses all along her neck, sliding down the sleeve of her shirt and brushing his thumb against the scar on her shoulder. “When she found out we were not together anymore, she got pretty angry. People keep telling me this thing about not letting go . . .”

Brienne brushed her fingers against his torso, feeling the smooth skin underneath his shirt. Before she knew it, she was taking it off, if only to look at him, at all of him. Jaime returned the gesture, and when she lay back with her chest exposed, she felt the soft blanket on her back. He grasped one of her breasts, touching it in the way he knew she loved, and took the opposite nipple between his lips. She arched into him, bewildered by how right his body felt pressed against hers.

“I agree now,” Jaime said, looking straight into her eyes, all traces of his amusement gone. “I should have fought for you, even if I had to fight against you. I should have brought you back, screaming and kicking, back with me, where you belong.”

Her chest tightened at the words, recalling the feeling of despair that had possessed her when she had gotten on her bike and turned her back on Jaime, turned her back on Winterfell; recalling how the road was blurred by her tears, how many times she considered turning back, arriving at the house and admitting it was a mistake. Remembering how slowly the months in King’s Landing had passed, how colorless and unremarkable they had seemed. _I do belong with you_ , she realized, putting a name to the connection that drew them together like magnets. _I belong_ to _you, and I seem to have no choice in the matter_.

Brienne kissed him, softly at first, until her tongue took a life of its own, exploring him, tasting him. Her breath was heavy when they parted. “What makes you think I would have let you?”

“Oh, I have my ways of weakening you . . .” He nibbled on her earlobe, making a shiver race down her spine. Then his hand came to rest against her shoulder blade. His eyes went to the part of her tattoo that was visible, and he smirked. “To look at this, everyone would think you a prey, a deer in the woods, but you’re fiercer than the whole lot of them.” His face neared hers until their lips almost touched. “You ought to get a lion instead.”

She shifted underneath him, her pulse speeding up from the mere tone of his voice, from the sensation of his mouth hungrily meeting hers. Brienne could also play games—there would have been no way for her to spend endless nights in the sheets with Jaime Lannister without learning a trick or two. “Are you jealous?” She pushed her hips up towards his, feeling his length grow harder at the gesture.

Jaime sighed loudly and moved his hands down until they reached her pants. He unbuttoned them and pulled them down, throwing them aside carelessly. “You’re mine. Why shouldn’t the world know?”

“You’d mark me like cattle?”

“I’ve been much deeper than your skin, I reckon,” he whispered into her ear.

It was all too much for Brienne. Jaime’s presence here, in her home island, the suddenness of his appearance, the delight he took in smashing her defenses were turning her skin to fire. Control slipped between her fingers like water flowing down a stream. She finished undressing him, stirred by the sight of his cock, hard and throbbing for release when she placed her fingers around it. Jaime sighed and adjusted his position to rub his palm between her legs through her underwear.

As soon as he felt the dampness, he smirked, pulling down the garment unhurriedly. “You can’t wait, can you?”

Her only response was a kiss, deep and nearly obscene in its daring, as waves of warmth traveled through her core, aching for his touch, for any part of him.

“I must be very good-looking, geek,” Jaime told her with a laugh, scraping his teeth along her jawline. “You didn’t even want to see me, and now you’re dying to have me inside you.”

She rolled them over violently, coming to straddle him and intertwining their fingers as she held his arms over his head. “My name,” she hissed in a tone that was nothing short of homicidal, “is _Brienne_.”

“Brienne,” he hummed into her ear. He placed his cock at her entrance, and she lowered herself onto him. “Brienne,” Jaime whispered again, rolling his tongue in that infuriating way, as she began riding him, long and slow.

Only then was the world set right again; it was when their bodies were joined together like this, when her body made way so he would fit inside her, that she felt truly at home. _I’ve been a fool_ , she realized, dread and elation merging in her veins, pumped in a fury throughout her body. Brienne kissed him and he thrust up, shoving himself inside her, every kiss a mere beginning to the process of recovering the wasted time.

They had been too long apart; it had been so many months without sharing a single touch that their rhythm was desperate, eager. She rested her hands against his chest, dug her nails into his skin as she leaned back slightly and shifted the angle, feeling Jaime brush against the spot that made her lose all sense of control. Panting, she gazed at his face, at the sweat traveling down his temple towards his neck. His pupils dilated when she reached behind her and gripped him the way he’d taught her, gentle but firm. Jaime grasped her hips tighter, so tightly they might leave a bruise, and with a groan, he swelled and spilled himself inside. She made sure to tense her walls around him at the right time almost subconsciously; they had learned so much from each other that it was all unspoken, instinctive.

Brienne lifted her hips to let him out, feeling his seed spill out of her, and came to lie beside him. Jaime turned and nuzzled his head in her neck, holding her by the waist. “Sorry,” he said with a grin. “Too long.”

 _Yes_. She brushed his soft hair with her fingers. _Too long to get here, too long apart_. It was a journey of timing, of being in the right place at the right time. Much like their investigation, things only fell into place when certain pieces fitted together, when bits of each of them were stripped, transformed.

With a smile, Brienne closed her eyes, and fell into a light sleep beside him.

* * *

By the time Jaime woke, Brienne was still in a slumber, her breaths slow and relaxed. He ran his fingertip over her lips, staring at every freckle on her face, at her milky skin sprawled on top of the crimson blanket. In all his days, he would have never thought to experience such a sense of protection and submission at the same time. Cersei had been too proud to ever truly give herself to him, whereas Brienne had handed every bit of herself to him without question.

She might have run, might have taken every opportunity to cower back into the shadow, but through the abyss of silence that had engulfed them, he had heard her swallowed screams. _I see you_ , she had said by taking down the video websites; _I’m here for you_ , she’d confirmed by exposing Meryn Trant. _I know your worth_ , she’d declared at last with every minute of the declarations on the TV screen, with every word of the announcement of Aerys Targaryen’s arrest. The rest she gave in her kisses, in her embraces. The rest Jaime did not need to hear.

So many things could have worried him when coming to Tarth. Brienne was much younger than him; she still had an essential innocence that had been taken from Jaime while he was still a child. To look at them, anyone would have thought them so different, but the truth was that since the very beginning, she had stood up for him, for the Kingslayer. Then, against all odds, this unusual and brilliant creature had fiercely protected him through the worst of his ordeals, had rescued his name from being dragged through the mud.

Curiously enough, Jaime would have never thought himself capable of leaving everything behind for anyone but Cersei, but here he was, bringing every piece of his belongings to the Sapphire Isle. Jaime had never set foot on the island before, but he could not deny the beauty of the sight when he had stepped off the ferry. As he waited for his SUV to be unloaded, he had stood on the port, gazing towards the radiant blue waters. The salty smell in the air had brought him straight back to his childhood, to the same air that populated Casterly Rock, so different to the foul one in King’s Landing. Perhaps it was not such an absurd thought that Tarth would now become his home.

“Have you lost your mind?” Tyrion had exclaimed as soon as Jaime had broken the news of his departure. “You mean to tell me that you’re going sell your apartment, grab all your crap and move to an island in the middle of fucking nowhere?”

“It’s not in the middle of fucking nowhere,” Jaime had assured his brother. “It’s just a short flight away from King’s Landing. You’re welcome to visit anytime.”

Tyrion had laughed at that. “It’s remarkable that you have no idea if this girl is even going to take pity on your poor soul, but you’re already inviting me over.”

Jaime had shrugged as he picked the last of his belongings from his office at the _Millennium_ building. “I’ll stay there either way.”

“You _are_ insistent, I’ll give you that,” Tyrion had said with a sigh, loosening the tie of the suit he had worn to his latest meeting with the investors. “Well, I’m sure I can’t change your mind.”

Their goodbye had been brief; they did their best to avoid an emotional scene. Jaime would miss his brother, but it was true that the flight was short enough for him to visit the city often. Some of the most important meetings would require Jaime’s presence, and he would also regularly visit Tommen, even if he still had to pretend to be his uncle. To know that he would get to be with Brienne again made all of it worth it.

Jaime woke her with a kiss, slipping his fingers in her short hair. Her dazing blue eyes opened slowly, studying him as though she had believed their previous encounter to be a dream. “Break time is over,” he told her cheekily, brushing one of her nipples and watching it harden in response. “I believe I have a debt to pay.”

“You do?” Brienne asked in a raspy voice, and cleared her throat. “What is this debt?”

He rolled her onto her back, and moved beside her, propping his head on his hand. With his free hand, he traced circles on the hair between her legs, close to the spot between her folds, though not quite touching it. “Oh, if you don’t know, then maybe we could just let it go.”

Brienne bit her lip, resting her arms over her stomach. “Well . . . maybe if I think hard enough, I could remember.”

The sight of her plump lips was already making his cock rise. He leaned forward and engulfed her in a kiss, deep and long, while he grasped the back of her thigh and spread her legs apart. “Or maybe you already have a handle on this,” Jaime said against her mouth. “Maybe, since you’ve been away from me so long, you don’t need me to get you there . . .” Instead of touching her, he took her right hand and slipped it down, placing it between her legs. “Maybe this is what you did while you were away from me, wishing for my cock,” he whispered into Brienne’s ear, running his tongue down her earlobe while taking her own fingers and slipping them inside her slowly.

A flush spread from her cheeks all the way down to her neck. He made her slide her fingers in and out, while his own thumb swept over her swollen nub. Brienne arched her back with each thrust, with every touch of him on the bundle of nerves, and her eyes remained only half-open, pupils swallowing her blue seas almost entirely. Watching her that way made him ache with an urge to have her wrapped around him, but he couldn’t stop looking at the way her chest rose speedily, at the drops of sweat that traveled down her breasts like dew on a fresh spring dawn.

“Did you mumble my name while you did it?” Jaime asked her, rubbing his hips against her thigh to feel the slightest relief. “I want to hear you,” he continued, nipping at her collarbone.

“Yes,” she murmured, her voice coming through a haze of delight, “Jaime . . .”

Brienne’s fingers dug deeper inside her, and the sound of her wetness with every plunge made his cock twitch, begging for release. Then she fully opened her eyes, and a surge of lust washed over her face. She bit his lower lip and pulled, dragging him into a deep kiss that left him breathless. “Jaime, Jaime, Jaime . . .” she groaned in a low tone with a wicked smile, and he understood that she was playing with him, teasing him.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled her fingers out of her and spread her legs apart as widely as he could. When he entered her, he felt as though he might come right then and had to clench his teeth to resist. He could barely move inside her without feeling like she was going to force his peak out of him.

Brienne didn’t fail to notice. “Jaime?” she purred at him. He tried to think very hard of something to distract him from the way she tensed around his length, every bit of it intentional. When she spoke again, her voice was low and tentative, her words carefully considered. “Am I too wet for you?” He thought he might be dreaming, to hear this from her. Though she had been this daring more than once in Winterfell, it was usually after having a little too much wine. When he looked into her eyes, he saw that she was blushing more than usual, and she was biting her lower lip lightly. _Are you drunk on me, my geek?_ There was hardly anything he enjoyed more than stripping her bare like this, watching her set aside her modesty just for him. Her lips rested against his ear. “Am I too . . . tight?” She clenched again, hard, doing a damn fine job of getting back at him for every time he had been the one to torment her in bed.

Their time apart had done something to her, made her bolder, fearless. It wasn’t strange, he supposed, that after all of their time fucking late into the night at Winterfell, some of her shyness would break apart to make way for her desire.

Not that he had expected this.

Jaime couldn’t stop himself anymore; his head was spinning. He pushed his way deep inside her and took her as roughly and fast as his hips allowed him. The moans that came out of her lips and the way she writhed beneath him were enough for him to know that the roughness of it was causing her pleasure instead of pain. He was grateful. He wasn’t sure he could have slowed down.

This time, Brienne reached her climax first, and he was more than glad for it. He didn’t even pause to let her ride through her orgasm, just continued, relishing the sensation of her contracting around his cock in ecstasy. She groaned in protest, as though asking him to give her respite, but he would not. She felt too right around him while she came, and her expression of utter surrender was too much for him. He thrust again and again, every second coming closer, his ears filled with the sound of their skins meeting and her gasps. Brienne bit his shoulder with a loud moan, finishing again, and this time she brought Jaime with her. He came inside her with a growl, his fingers digging into the skin of her thigh. Her pulse against his lips was maddening; her heart was racing, much like his own. Their sweat mingled together on their skin, abundant as though they had just ran a marathon. Jaime managed to roll off her and rest his back against the floor of the SUV while both of them caught their breaths.

He definitely liked Tarth.

Panting heavily, Brienne turned to look at him, every inch of her face and chest flushed. They were distracted by the sound of a group of seagulls cawing loudly in the sky above them, which made Brienne jump to a sitting position, reaching around him for her underwear and her pants. “Jaime,” she said with urgency, throwing on her clothes. “We have to get out of this car.”

He chuckled, putting on his t-shirt as she flung it in his face. “Are you afraid we’ll stay here forever, fucking until we die of starvation?”

Brienne climbed out of the trunk, looking for her shoes. “Anyone could have seen us out here,” she mumbled in embarrassment, sitting at the back of the car to tie them.

Once Jaime was dressed, he sat behind her, encircling her waist with his arms and resting his face on her shoulder. She smiled faintly against his cheek. “Are you gonna get shy with me now, after that?”

All of a sudden, her playfulness was gone, and he realized she was staring at the suitcases on the ground, and then towards the house in turn. It had seemed odd to Jaime that she had been sitting outside when he arrived, unmoving, but sensing the change in her mood, he immediately realized something was wrong. He knew it was not about him moving in with her. They had already lived together before, and she had been more than welcoming so far. “What is it?” he asked.

“I’m just . . . I’m not living here right now. We have to move the luggage to the inn where I’m staying,” she explained.

Then it hit Jaime that, despite being here for the past week, all Brienne could do was stare at the house from a distance. It was no wonder. The last time she had been inside, she had watched her father die, had almost been killed herself, and to top it all off she’d had to kill a man. After that, her life had been under the control of someone else, her home had been taken from her and Brienne had been on her own. It was no easy feat for her to walk back in.

Jaime exited the car and pulled her to her feet without a word. As he led her back towards the house, a hesitant expression appeared on her features, but she followed him nonetheless. When they were in front of the entrance, he stopped to give her time. “I’m here. You don’t have to do it alone.”

She looked at him with nervous eyes, then back towards the doorknob. “I . . . What if it’s still there?” Brienne asked softly. “The bloodstain?”

Jaime smiled. “Remember how we had our own bloodstain back in Winterfell? We’ll clean it up. Hells, we’ll tear half the house down and rebuild it, if it’s what you want.”

If she could not fight this battle, he would fight it for her. Brienne had done no less for him, for his life and for his honor, bringing down Aerys Targaryen and restoring his name as a journalist. She had been fearless and persistent, had stood up for him, believed in him. He would not be intimidated by her ghosts, not after she had vanquished his.

Brienne took a deep breath and placed her hand on the doorknob, turning it slowly with a creak.

They had been together through life and death, swam across the past and the present, brought hope to a place that held only held bleakness for a decade. Against all expectation, they had walked a path of risk and come out the other side, weary but proud. Jaime was not afraid of what they would find inside.

Everyone had secrets, and he was more than eager to discover all of hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This timeline](http://snk.to/f-cdzjyn3u) is a little present for RoseHeart and tamjlee, if you guys are crazy enough to check it. I apologize in advance for any mistakes that might have come as a result of my over-revising of the actual content.
> 
> And so it ends. I wanted to write a really long, inspiring note to express my gratitude to everyone who has been with me through the journey, but I find that words can’t quite cover my feelings. EHS is by far the most emotionally demanding thing I’ve ever written, and when I first posted this, I never imagined so many of you would enjoy it, let alone _live it_ with me the way you have. 
> 
> I have mentioned it before and I will mention it again—this story would have never been complete without your comments. Not finished, but _complete_ , because your perspective absolutely transforms the content, and not only does it make it better for other readers who like to check them, but to me, it becomes an entirely new experience where I get to see the magic of staring at my world through your eyes.
> 
> I’ve also gotten to know so many of your individual preferences, because I have been entirely blessed with commenters who have been so constant that I can’t ever thank you enough. Each of you has enjoyed a different thing about this, found value in distinct aspects of it, and it just goes to show what a beautiful, varied fandom we have. You can’t know how amazing you’ve made this experience for me. 
> 
> Last but not least, none of this would have been possible without YellowDelaney. We make a peculiar pair, for sure, and between the two of us we have enough drama to last anyone a lifetime. Yet even through her own pile of crap, she was always there to turn this story into everything it could possibly be. Not to mention being there for my general insanity and bouts of madness and freakouts over this fic and well… life. So do give her a gigantic shout-out. You owe her the right use of pronouns, restructuring of tongue-tying sentences, and porn quality checks.


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